[center]
[h3]Writing Prompt Archive[/h3]
(Part 1/2)
[/center]

[i]Meeting Another Character[/i] - Non-canon ([b]#1[/b]):

[hider=A Visitor from the Stars]
By [@Dervish]

A thunderous clap filled the sky and what appeared to be a meteorite thundered through the sky like an enraged burning fist that raced to punch the ground. When the crash didn’t occur, a perplexed Do’Karth stopped flinching and covering his ears in anticipation for the deafening soundwave that was almost certain to come. In fact, things seemed strangely quiet, as if the meteorite never happened, except for a strange scent in the air that was unlike any Do’Karth was familiar with. A primal part of his mind tried to tell himself it was a burnt oil, but that immediately crumbled apart under any form of scrutiny. He looked at his modest campground he was establishing for the night, including the makeshift shelter, debating if he should leave everything behind while he went to investigate or take it with him. Looking around, he was well off the road and nothing was likely to stumble across his lake view abode in the time it took him to investigate the strange thing he had witnessed, so he decided to leave things as they were.

Cutting through the forested lands of Cyrodiil, not far from Cheydinhal, it was a rather peaceful and lovely day, and the Khajiit made good time with quarterstaff in hand, his nose twitching as followed the strange scent, feeling somewhat apprehensive about what he was about to come across. What if it was a Daedric gate, or something otherworldly such as that? Even he didn’t care for his odds of fighting something from another plane of existence. 

When he came to a clearing, he finally caught sight of the meteorite; a strange metal house with a glowing pair of drums on the back looked like it had been dragged several dozen meters before coming to a stop on its own. It was a sight that defied explanation, and it made him deeply uneasy. Nothing in Tamriel looked like that. 

Torn between leaving to avoid finding out what horrors waited at the house and the same curiosity that took him to Skyrim to find dragons, Do’Karth was deciding what to do when one of the only visible doors opened upwards from the siding, and a figure emerged uneasily. Do’Karth tensed until he caught sight of the figure’s face. A woman.

A human woman.

“What on Nirn…” he asked himself, flabbergast. Nothing about this was making sense. From here, he could make out the short-cut hair with a short mohawk dominating her crown and her pale face, which was only a few shades darker than the white on her armour, which resembled full plate armour in only the most superficial of ways. In her hands was some kind of weapon, not anything he’d seen before, although it reminded him very vaguely of the general shape of a crossbow. It was hard to tell if she was hostile or not.

She lifted her wrist, which was suddenly encased in an orange glow of very strangely stiff glowing magic and ahead of her emerged the strangest Atronach or Oblivion creature Do’Karth had ever witnessed. It was an orb with several translucent and shifting plates and discs, like it was some kind of Dwemer construct. Suddenly, it turned, it’s featureless “eye” staring at his direction. No, at [I]him[/I].

Do’Karth wanted to run, thinking he was about to come under attack, when the woman didn’t immediately react, her arms at her sides and her grey eyes locked upon Do’Karth, an eyebrow raised. She called something out to him, but he was unable to understand a word she was saying. She turned to look at her Atronach, and said something. The thing whirred and the air was filled with a soft music, almost invitingly. The woman waved at him, and he returned the gesture, to which she exclaimed something, positively from the tone of her voice, jerking a fist down in a sign of victory. She turned her attention to him, beaconing him closer. Now more curious than afraid, Do’Karth complied, walking cautiously towards the woman, who watched him approach with an expression that was not unlike his own.

Now standing a few meters from her and her Atronach, she spoke again, in a tongue that was completely foreign to him. He shook his head, gesturing he did not understand her. The Atronach whirred a bit and her voice was repeated back, in different languages this time. It was translating her words, trying to find a common thread.

“This one does not understand you…” he replied, scratching the back of his neck. The woman’s wrist began to glow again, and she poked her fingers at the magical spell she was concocting, to which to Do’Karth stood back in alarm. She raised her hands, saying a word he felt meant no repeatedly. She looked worried; not wanting to upset him. She resumed what she was doing, looking excited, and suddenly, her spell materialized a small crystal like object. She held it up to her ear, nodding a couple of times and extended her metal-clad hand to him with an open palm. He took the device, which felt nearly weightless and completely rigid. The woman nodded excitedly, gesturing to her ear again, and to his. He cautiously lifted the device to his ear and she spoke again, the words became translated in languages he did not understand. She spoke a single word extending her fingers out from her mouth each time she spoke. 

“Do you wish for this one to speak?” He asked. She nodded excitedly, gesturing for him to continue.

For the next several minutes, both spoke back and forth to each other, not quite understanding what the other was saying, but the words were becoming increasingly familiar, until finally. “-ting close, I think.”

“This one understood that!” He exclaimed, surprised and utterly enraptured by the magic he was witnessing. 

“Oh, thank god. I had no idea universal translator software could work for first contact…” she said excitedly, trailing off, and staring at Do’Karth. “And I realize I just spent the last twenty minutes talking to a bloody cat.” She said, blinking. Her accident sounded somewhat like a Breton.

“Are you a Breton?” he asked, his confusion renewed.

“A Britain? How could you possibly know what Britain is or where I was born… wait. You aren’t reading my mind are you?” She asked, eyes wide with a slow blink.

Do’Karth uttered a confused non-committal sound from the back of his throat. “Do’Karth does not think so…? Your magic worries him.” He admitted. Britain? Was that how it was actually pronounced?

The woman ran her glove through her hair, perplexed. “Steal a shuttle, they said. You’ll get paid a bonus for it, they said. Bloody hell, did I hit my head harder than I thought? I’m imagining this, aren’t I?”

“This one is fairly certain he is real.” Do’Karth replied, wondering if the woman was crazy or concussed. 

She blinked, slapping herself gently across the face. “Okay. Definitely awake. And strange cat-person, magic isn’t real. I know I’m not supposed to be showing non-uplifted species advanced tech, but fuck it, I’m not an anthropologist and you sure as shit don’t look like a krogan.” She paused, looking back at her house. “I need a bloody drink.”

She stepped away, climbing inside her home, and came out with a container that opened mechanically, kind of like a Dwemer chest. Inside were packages and utensils. She pulled a bottle out that looked like rum. 

“This is whiskey. Do you drink? And if so, I sure as hope we share amino-acid classification because I would hate to murder the first new species humanity’s discovered in decades because you couldn’t tolerate it.” The woman said, screwing the bottle open and pouring one glass, handing it over to Do’Karth. She knocked it back and drank right from the bottle, as if it were water. The Khajiit sniffed it, and took a sip. It was both extremely potent, but it tasted pure and not at all gritty like most alcohol he’d tried. He obviously made a face, because the woman offered a cheeky grin. “Sorry, pal, it’s all I have. So what the hell is a Do’Karth?”

“…It is this one’s name.” he answered meekly.

The woman blinked. “So you talk in the third person? Great. A talking cougar who wears people clothes and talks about himself like a bloody hanar. This is getting stupid.”

“This one did not mean to offend you. He is just… out of his element.” Do’Karth replied.

“You’re even polite like a hanar. I guess it could be worse; you could be trying to eat me.” The woman replied, knocking back her bottle.

“Why would Do’Karth eat a human?” He asked, perturbed. “He is in a courtship with a human woman, a Nord-“

The woman covered her mouth with her arm, suppressing a hard cough after choking on her drink. “The fuck? Roll back a tick. A human?”

“This one tends to get that reaction from the purists, yes.”

“I mean, yeah, it’s weird, but people from where I’m from hook up with alien species all the time, like we have this, uh, bird-reptile who’s been fucking another one of her species and a frog-lizard guy and… okay, yeah, when I think about it, interspecies buggery is hardly the strangest thing I’ve run across. But there’s humans on this planet? How did none of them tell the galactic community about this planet? Is it all cat people-“

“Khajiit.”

“Okay, Khajiit, sure. Is it all you people and humans here? What about turians, or asari, or salarians?” the woman asked, excited. 

Do’Karth blinked, shaking his head. “This one wants to pretend you are just naming off high elf meals. He does not understand a word of that.”


“Elves… you have got to be fucking with me.” The woman said, hitting the bottle again. “Just I just crash land in a Tolkein novel?” she demanded.

“Tolkein… is that one of your story tellers?” He asked, trying to piece together everything she was saying. Frog-lizards?

“Yeah, he wrote a few books nearly 300 years ago about some short guy called a Hobbit who went to throw some magic ring into a volcano because it was pure evil or whatever while palling around with a king, a few of his Hobbit midget pals, a dwarf and an elf, all while dodging orcs and running into talking trees and shit. They were popular, kind of inspired a bunch of fantasy stuff.” The woman explained.

Do’Karth blinked rapidly. Wherever she had come from, things that were regular in his world were fictional characters? “We have orcs, the Dwemer were sometimes called dwarves, and there are forest spirits that are called Spriggans that are kind of like talking trees…”

“I really need to stop finding new ways to be both surprised and half tempted to call out bullshit, but today is one of those days where my expectations are getting dashed most expertly. So your orcs are a bunch of marauding savage twisted and deformed elves that slaughter innocent people and work for the most powerful evil entity of all time that wants to rule the world?”

“Well, many orcs can be described as barbarians, and they do like fighting and warfare, but Do’Karth wouldn’t call them savages, and they worship Malacath, but he is a Daedra that is something of a warrior outcast. What you are describing sounds like Mehrunes Dagon, who invaded Tamriel two hundred years ago trying to conquer it with his Daedric hordes.” Do’Karth explained.

The woman just blinked. “I’m just going to stop asking questions I’m not ready for the answer at this point and overlook the fact you just implied your gods are real. I’m Tanya, by the way. Tanya Carson. I come from some planet called Terra Nova that’s a number of star systems away, and this planet is in uncharted space and completely hurting my bloody mind. So, humans. Are they nearby?” 

Do’Karth nodded, gesturing to the Northeast. “There is a city called Cheydinhal about two hours from here. He could take you, if you wish?” he offered.

“That’s mighty kind of you, I may take you up on that if I don’t get a reply for my distress signal soon. I doubt anyone here’s capable of entering a sophisticated spaceflight capable shuttle, let alone knowing how to operate it.” She replied, looking up at the Atronach, which pivoted. “Looks like we have company.”

She stood up, setting her bottle down, and Do’Karth rose his feet, turning to the source of interest. A group of armed men, two Imperials and an Orc, approached, weapons drawn, including a bow. Do’Karth knew he could slip away to fight in more favourable terrain with relative ease, but what of his companion?

“They are bandits. The green one is an orc.” Do’Karth mentioned.

“What, seriously? I mean, I know a few people who would be attracted to that, if you got rid of the tusks.” She said to him, stepping forward. “Hello there. My friend here tells me you three are a bunch of cunts. That true?”

The three bandits looked at each other, confused. [I]Right, universal translator. [/I] she thought.

Apparently deciding that they weren’t going to get anything out of her through dialog, Do’Karth stepped forward, ready to protect from a charge, when one of the Imperials loosed an arrow, impacting Tanya’s chest and stopping dead with a shimmering blue glow. She looked down at the broken arrow at her feet. “Right. Cunts it is, then. Shithead, resume playlist. Full volume.”

The Atronach suddenly emitted a painfully loud sound that sounded like music that was churned out of the most hellish pits of Oblivion with a slow, ponderous voice growling some kind of lyrics that Do’Karth did not understand. His ears flattened and he cringed at the unexpected volume, but still caught sight of Tanya pulling the strange crossbow-like weapon from the small of her back, which extended out into a longer weapon that she held with both hands. Raising it up to her line of sight, the weapon exploded out the end with a blinding blue flash,  and almost instantly, the archer collapsed to the ground, a large hole bored out of his chest. The other two bandits turned to run, and she elected not to pull the trigger a second time. “I come in peace, assholes! Don’t fuck with me; I’m from the future!” She called out to them, hopefully cementing the idea that trying to rob strangers was bad for your life expectancy. When they were clear, she turned to the Atronach once more. “Hey, Shithead. Pause feedback.” She instructed it. Everything went silent again. 

“So, aren’t you glad you decided to be-“ she started, turning to Do’Karth, who was bowing on the ground, looking both astonished and terrified. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“Are you… a god?” he asked, awe in his voice.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” She groaned.
[/hider]
[Hider=At a Fire, Somewhere in the Reach]
By [@Leidenschaft]

[b][i]
The Reach
4e212
[/i][/b]

The rain may have given up, but the wind was still determined as ever to ruin Solveig's day. The Reach was known for the stuff, nothing but rocks, hills, and wind. And Forsworn, she thought, looking at her bandaged palm, the fabric turned brown where the knife had stuck right through her hand. The one holding it thankfully fared far worse than her. It had been a long time since she'd seen the others, for all she knew, the Forsworn had got them. She closed her eyes and sighed at the thought, then shook her head and put her hands out to the pitiful fire she'd managed to light. Wood was not one of those three things the Reach was known for. Her eyes turned to the darkening sky, what she would give for some company. Or a map. Or to just be back home with ma or that crotchety Long-Ear she called her husband. Especially him, she reckoned she had some explaining and some apologizing to do after how she left.

The sound of clinking armour and the sounds of loose stones being disturbed upon the rocky landscape of the Reach suddenly broke the calm of the night, a decidedly man-made disruption to the natural order that was not elk, bear, nor wolf, but the sound of an intelligent and well-off danger that was doubtless attracted to the light. Soon, the darkened steel plates of Nord-crafted steel reflected the fire's light back towards Solveig, and the figure's eyes reflected back in an eerie amber glow. Adorned in the armour was a Khajiit woman, a striking greatsword in one hand, and a pair of dead snared hares in the other.

She stood outside of the pictured safe ring of the encampment and stared back at the Nord woman. "I need that." she said, raising her massive blade towards the flames. Without asking for permission, the Khajiit stepped forward, taking a knee by the fire and setting the hares down. The sword remained in her grasp.

"I'll share the fire if you share the food." Solveig said. One of her requests was answered, at least. Though, she was really hoping for some other kind of company, the kind that didn't step out in full armor with a big fuck-off blade in hand. After learning how shitty being stabbed with a little blade was, she didn't fancy the prospect of seeing if it hurt more the bigger the blade was. Even so, she'd never seen a Khajiit running with Forsworn. But bandits... "Are four of your friends waiting farther back while one of them nocks an arrow at me?"

"People are a liability. If I really wanted to take what you have, we wouldn't be having this little chat. I misplaced my tinderbox about five leagues East, so rather than eat raw meat, I decided to make due with what little choice I have." She looked up at Solveig, her expression unchanging, before deciding the woman wasn't going to do anything stupid. Setting herself down into a cross-legged seating position, the Khajiit set down her sword and pulled an orcish dagger from her hip and began to cut into one of the hares.

"I misplaced my band somewhere between here and another nameless hill. Seems we both lost something then." The half-drawn knife returned to its place at the small of her back as she rested her forearms against her knees, sitting in the same cross-leg style the Khajiit was. "I don't see many Khajiit wearing full-armor, much less full Nord plate. Or carrying blades big as yours." Solveig sucked her teeth as she took in the Khajiit while she set to work on one of the hares.

The Khajiit didn't look up from her task, pulling the pelt from the hare with a single firm tug. It clearly wasn't the first time she'd done this. "And now you have. How observant." She replied deadpan, continuing to work on dressing the animal.

Her eyes went back up to the sky for two reasons, to roll, and to ask the Gods why they loved to laugh at her. She should've asked for friendly company, but it was too late for that now. What was it the Khajiit said, make due with what little choice she had? She shifted in her seat on the dirt and sighed. "Spent much time in Skyrim?" She tried at some kind of conversation again.

The Khajiit glanced up. "For a Nord, you ask a lot of questions. I've spent enough time in Skyrim to know it's about as miserable and inhospitable as anywhere else I've been, just a lot colder. Same wildlife wants to eat you," she punctuated this by cracking open the hare's ribs with the tip of the tagged blade. "Bandits don't really change much. People see a lone woman traveling and think you're someone to fuck with. Doesn't really matter where you are, really. Nothing changes between place to place that actually matters." she said, rolling her jaw. Her manner of speaking was decidedly quite different from Do'Karth's, and even her accent was greatly diminished. "Skyrim. Morrowind. Cyrodiil. Argonia. Trees, lakes, and utterly hostile when you leave cities. I will say I don't miss the damned swamps and diseases down South, though. I prefer things I can kill that don't involve me having to knock back a pint of piss-flavoured elixir."

"I see." Solveig clucked her tongue, picking at a fingernail. If she wasn't such a bitch, maybe she'd like her. She remembered that was how one of Rorik Four-Faces band was, right before she scarred him in the Circle. She wasn't in any mind to draw Circles in the dirt for no reason, so she'd have to put up with this woman until she moved on. "Yet you're still on the roads, eh? I knew a Khajiit traveler once, friends with my father." 'He was nicer than you' she left unsaid, "Told me the only ones that leave Elsweyr have to have some damn good reasons."

The Khajiit remained quiet for a moment, her butchery of her meal slowed down in thought. "He wasn't wrong. I'm looking for someone that I probably will never find, but he's the reason I'm alive... not by choice." she added with some slight reluctance. "It's a task that will likely never be concluded, but it's one I have to do. It isn't something you simply walk away from." the edge in her voice had diminished somewhat, but there was hardly warmth. "Rare for a Nord to befriend a Khajiit. Usually your kin like to lock them out of the cities, probably because they're afraid of eating something that's cooked with more appeal than boiled mutton and whatever passes as fish up here."

She nodded, eyes going back to a face she hadn't seen in a long while, "I had the same quest once. I found him, tried to get answers, tried to get him to settle down. I loved him," She shook her head, "I still do, I mean, all the good it did for anything. Men don't learn, they think they're right all up until they run into something that proves they aren't." She shrugged.

"I'm not like most. Nord or woman." She chuckled, "I do admit that we're not known for our chefs or food. High Rock's back west if you're looking for banquet halls and sweet-meats." Both sounded good right then.

"Who was he?" the Khajiit asked. "I find most people don't really learn, men or women. Get an idea in their head, and they tend to not let it go easily. I speak from personal experience. As for High Rock, I'm actually heading there now,  figure it's easier to pass through Hammerfell than go up into the far North. I can't say I cherish the idea; High Rock sounds like the most pompous place imaginable with people who smile to your face and stab you in the back. At least with Nords one knows where you stand. Your people are straight forward. I admire that." she said, finished with the one hare, setting it down on her pack as she found a decently thick stick to start wittling down with her blade.

"Not lover, nothing like that. That man's still alive, he's probably deep in his books. The one I was looking for was my father. His name was Jorwen Red-Bear, a good man to most that knew him." She frowned, clearing her throat in a fist before asking, "The man you're after, love him or hate him?"


"Never met him. Half-brother." She made an annoyed huff out her nostril. "Probably sounds insane and stupid, and I agree. Doesn't change the need."

She raised an eyebrow, "Still doesn't answer my question."

The Khajiit snorted. "Of course it does. How can you love someone you've never met? A part of me resents him, but that's countered by the fact the only reason I am alive is because of him. Tragedy befell my family, he was taken, I was what they got in turn. It wasn't a good upbringing. So, does my interrogator have a name?" 

"Solveig. I don't like my earned one." She said simply, "Yours?"

"Marassa. You mean to say you aren't fond of the strange cultural relic Nords cling to that being called a silly name validates you?" she asked with a terse smile.

"Not the Name it gave me. Bad memories. I was supposed to put down my spear after what I did. 'I'm not my father,' I'd said." She shrugged, "I cheated, I just left the spear at home for this last job. I suppose the Mister is clucking his tongue and rolling his eye at that," A soft smile as she stared into the fire, remembering she had a Dunmer waiting for her at home, before it fell away, "It's not a nice, honorable, heroic story behind it."

"Never apologise for surviving. Anyone who tries to tell you what you've done is immoral or wrong has never had to make a difficult decision in their life that would have had a difficult outcome regardless." Marassa said, staring at Solveig with a determined glare. "All deciding to put your weapon down results in is the situation where it won't be there when you need it most. Your enemies won't ever grow softer. Make sure they never grow older."

Solveig gave her old wolf's grin, "I like that." She said, replacing that fierce smile she'd earned her Name with with a softer one, "And I wish you told me that seven years ago. The path that takes you to down to the blackest deeds isn't rough or steep, you hardly know you've gotten any lower until you look back at where you started and notice it hurts to look back up that far. 'You pick a path' my father said, 'you tell yourself it'll only be for today or a couple more, you only realize its too late to go back before you realize you picked it for life.'"

"I made sure the men that wronged my father were nothing but ash and I spitted the fucker's head that took him from me. 'I'm not my father' I said, even though everyone around me was telling me otherwise." She shrugged, "It is what it is. Reckon he'd like you though, my father."

"Why, because he's fond of collecting cats?" Marassa asked half-jokingly.

Solveig gave a little laugh, "He and I can appreciate a fellow warrior. He was fond of big fuck-off blades like yours too. His was older than me even."

Marassa picked up her sword with both hands, it was obviously quite well-used, but meticulously cared for. "Skyforge Steel. It was a gift from my mentor when I was younger before I set out on my journey. He was an adventurer, wrote a few books, decided to open a dojo instead of fully retiring. All the money I paid him over the years to teach me how to use a blade was put aside for this weapon. He said, 'A blade is only as good as the one who wields it, but a good blade will never fail you'. I suppose he wanted to make sure I had the best chance possible, given that I wasn't going to be deterred." she replied, setting it down across her knees. 

"I can't imagine your father would care for me for long. Companions come and go, but I've never subscribed to lofty ideals or causes. All that matters is doing what I set out to do, to Oblivion to anyone else. Thing is, a legacy and reputation are something that others give you. It only matters if you bother to listen and take it to heart, and I really do not. Some on the trail behind me would describe me as a feral beast who cut down their brothers and fathers without feeling only to pick their pockets clean. Others would describe me as someone who saved them from rapists, thieves, and murderers. To them, I could do no wrong. What does it matter? I won't see those people again, and even if I did, I know who I am, they can come up with whatever tale suits their feeble needs." the Khajiit explained, starting work on the second hare.

"Solveig, you aren't your father... Jorwen, was it? People want to pair you up with him because you share blood. It's stupid. If you live your life trying to prove how different you are, or how similar you are, to him, then all you're doing is suiting their needs. You are your own person, your own warrior. To Oblivion with anyone who gets in the way of that. They don't get to decide your fate. You do." Marassa concluded, eyes down on her work.

"Aye, I've stopped trying to apologize or hating myself for the things I've done. I've tried to live my life not giving a single stray fleck of piss about people's opinions. Being young, though, you do it for the wrong reasons. It's more spite than it is for my own independence. I was more a boat being pushed along by the tides than I realized, and the worst part is I was the only person on that boat, crossing my arms and refusing to pick up the oars." She shook her head, "For what it's worth, Marassa, I hope you find your half-brother. And I hope it goes the way you've seen it going. If not, we Nords have a saying, should the sail fail you, take to the oars. Men are stubborn and they only get more stubborn as they age. My husband is a hundred or more summers old, think on that." She laughed.

Marassa chuckled. "I know all about making stupid and wrong decisions due to youth. It's how I got where I am today. The boat analogy is somewhat lost on me, I'm afraid; I've never been on one in my life, but I think I understand what you're saying. Do not be stubborn for the sake of pride and do your part if it's better for everyone." She said, finishing the second hair and repeating the wittling ritual. "I appreciate that. I honestly don't expect to find him, but I can't say the road's entirely bad. Maybe I'll find something that seems more important than chasing down ghosts, but I sure haven't found it yet." 

She looked over at Solveig, crooking her head. "What exactly do you have in common with someone who's lived your life five times over?" she asked, more out of curiosity than cruelty. 

Solveig smiled softly and shrugged, "Love is a strange thing. I told you I'm not like most- Nord or woman. Especially both, in my marriage. A Nord usually doesn't find what she wants in a Long-Ear." She chuckled, "And you aren't missing much with boats. You wouldn't be able to get me on one with the experiences I've had on them." She cringed with the memories. "I know I don't have to tell you this, but you often do find more important things than living your life for someone else. In my pursuit of my father, I found the man who would be my husband. He's half the reason I put down my spear."

"I can't say I could compare journals on love, it simply hasn't factored into my life. So, is this elf husband of yours with your misplaced companions? Seems like he shouldn't have left your side if you were traveling together." Marassa observed. "Something happens on the road, no one ever friends out. I don't have anyone waiting for me, so if I finally find someone better than me, there's never going to be someone wondering why I never made it home. You, however, have a lot riding on your return. How did you get separated?"

"He's home. He put down his sword, I wasn't going to make him betray his own promises.  There was an argument before I left, I told him Id' be home. If the things we faced down together couldn't kill me, then nothing could, I said." She held up her bandaged hand, "It doesn't keep some from trying. Reachmen here don't take kindly to Nords in their hills and mountains."

Marassa smiled tersely. "Try being a Khajiit anywhere but Elsweyr. You would think all the lords and Jarls had an open season on our hides. Reachmen are vicious, but they sure are underwhelming in the equipment. I've actually cut a man in half in these parts; it was rather unexpected." she said. "I'm not sure what made you decide to walk the road again instead of joining him in the pursuit of getting old and fat, but if you have need of another sword to find where you're going, you need only ask. From one woman to another, traveling alone is dangerous and stupid. I tell myself that every day when I wake up, keeps my expectations for strangers modest."

"Well, I'm not a big, ugly bandit missing half his teeth that hasn't seen a woman who would rip his guts out if he so much as turned in her direction." Solveig chuckled, "If we do spend the next few days on the road, we'd be heading away from your destination, sadly. I live back in Whiterun, where I started my life. Figure there's something ironically poetic in spending your life only to go back to where you started it. Whiterun feels like home though."

"I'll have to take you at your word; Skyrim doesn't tend to let Khajiit inside of the walls. It's mostly the caravans, but imagine how you reacted when you first saw me multiplied by a number of individuals who think that Khajiit are only thieves and smugglers and you end up with a lot of nights out of doors." She shrugged, handing off one of the hares on a stick to Solveig. "Besides, that's one of the perks of searching for eternity; you've nothing but time. I've been at this a few years. Sometimes to get where you need to go, you have to walk the way you came." 

Solveig took the offered hare and held it over the fire, her eyes going to the dirt under her at what Marassa just said. Getting old and fat wasn't something she was ready for, nor did she feel she would ever be. Even if that scarred Long-Ear was at her side the whole way. Sometimes, though, to get where you need to go, you have to walk the way you came. She smiled softly at that, huffing out of her nose quietly at that unintentional piece of wisdom, "Aye, sometimes you do, I reckon." She nodded, "My name's a little known. The guards shouldn't hassle you if they see a Nord with you. I am glad we crossed paths, for every woman like me, there's ten men."

The Khajiit nodded. "Might as well use your name for something useful. I'm relieved I found a traveling companion that seems to have a good head and at least a number of good tales under her belt. The road can be dull, I'm grateful to have stumbled across your light." she said with a slight smile.

Her eyes went up to the sky for the third time that night, maybe the Gods weren't so malicious after all. She slowly turned the spit with thumb and forefinger, a smile on her face and a good companion at her fire. The wind had died down somewhat sometime between Marassa's rough arrival and her gradual opening-up. It was turning out to not be a bad night, hopefully by this time in two days, she'd be back with that gumpy-arse of a Dunmer at their hearth, sharing tales with Marassa, if she stayed. Sure enough, she'd have some good tales to tell, being traveled. "Aye, always good to find those who are the dependable sort."[/Hider]
[hider=A Chance Encounter]
By [@MacabreFox]

	Frigid winds whipped past Vera Addley, snow blinded her. She could hardly make out a few feet in front of her. She tread upon a broken stone road, one that was unfamiliar to her. The last time she remembered, London didn’t have roads like this, or even Liverpool for that matter. As she tried to recall how she ended up here, a light in the distance caught her attention. She changed her direction, light meant something. It meant warmth, food, and [i]people[/i]. In circumstances like this, she would have avoided heading directly for the light, but in her situation, lost and caught in a blizzard, she really didn’t have a choice. 

[i]’Shay, where are you?’[/i] She wondered, her eyes burning with tears. The last thing she did remember, was that she had fallen asleep next to him that night, the warmth of his body surrounded her, until she woke up in a snow drift. In London, it was midsummer, so for it to be snowing like this made her confused.

	With arms trembling, numb with cold, she pounded her fists upon the door to a stone cabin. The sound of merriment ongoing inside lulled her into the sense that perhaps these people would help her, instead of cutting out her tongue. Or worse. Just then, the door swung inward, revealing a frighteningly tall woman with a mane of fiery hair. Both gazed at one another in surprise. At the mystery woman’s hip, there gleamed the blade of axe. Her hand darted to it, curling around the wooden shaft.
	
“Who are [i]you[/i]?” Her accent was unlike anything Vera had ever heard. 

“I’m Vera Addley. Please, I need your help. I’m lost, and I have no idea where I am.” She returned, taking a step forward to come into the light. The red-haired woman eyed her with apparent suspicion, yet she stepped aside, and gestured for her to enter.

	Once inside, Vera headed straight for a stone fireplace where she warmed her hands. When she turned to warm her backside, she noticed several faces seated around a hewn wooden table that shocked her. There was a man with long sandy-brown hair, dressed as if he were a knight, and a blonde woman that sat in his lap. While across from them, was the one that drew her attention the most. There was an oversized cat, who looked to be a mountain lion of some sort. Forcing the door shut against the howling winds, the red-haired woman came to stand before her, eyes sweeping over her.

“Where do you hail? You are dressed like no one I’ve seen. Are you from the Imperial City?” She asked, hands planted firmly on her hips.

	“Imperial City?” Vera returned, the name of this place sounded unlike anything she had ever heard. “Is that where I am now?”

“No,” Here she chuckled, “You are in Skyrim. Falkreath Hold to be exact. So if you are not from the Imperial City, where do you come from?”

	“I’m from London, England.” Vera said. 

“London, England? Never heard of the place.” She said with a shrug of her shoulders. “What are you doing out in a blizzard dressed like that?” Here, the woman gestured to her clothes, giving her reason to look down at her own body. Sure enough, she had fallen asleep in her clothes, something that happened from time to time when she partook of her pipe. A black pleated skirt, with a button-down blouse, stockings and a pair of her Mary-Janes, and a cloche upon her head. 

“I… I can’t say for certain. The last thing I remember is falling asleep, and when I woke up, I found myself here, in the middle of a blizzard.”

	“Ah, sounds like the work of the Daedra.” Commented the man.

“This one would not doubt that indeed, the Daedra have had a hand to play in this.” When the cat-person spoke, her eyes widened.

“You can speak?” She asked, hoping that she really didn’t hear him speak.

“Yes, this one speaks.” His voice sounded like marmalade, thick with an accent, and honeyed.

	“Allow me to introduce ourselves.” The woman that had let her in gestured with an open hand towards the cat-person/man-thing, “This is Do’Karth, my husband. And this is Leif Raven-Stone, with his wife Ilona. They come from Solitude.”

“Pardon me… you said that you are married to… Do’Karth? To a cat…?”

	A flash of anger burst in the woman’s eyes at Vera’s words, “Watch your words, woman. Or I’ll carve your liver out.” Her hand curled around the axe at her hip.

“I’m terribly sorry! It’s just… ah… we don’t have his kind where I’m from.”

“You do not have Khajiit in this, London?” Do’Karth asked.

“No. Only humans.”

“What a strange place!” Exclaimed the blonde woman named Ilona, her arms were encircled around the man’s neck.

[i]’I could say the same about this place,’[/i] Vera mused bitterly. This felt like a bad dream she was never going to wake up from.

“Hmph.” The woman grumbled, and then stuck out her hand for Vera to shake, “I am Sevine Varg-t’uk. You might as well join us, we just sat down for supper.” With that, those seated around the table made room for Vera to join them.

	It was now that Vera took in the welcoming scents of dinner, to be certain, the slab of a goat leg sitting on a wooden platter made her raise a brow. That was an entire leg of a goat… were they going to eat it? There were other normal looking foods, such as apples, and leeks. There were several rolls of bread in a basket. Her gaze shifted around the room, hands folded neatly in her lap, lest she cause offense. She landed on the curious sight of herbs drying over the fireplace, along with a pair of pheasants hung upside-down. 

“Here you are, goat leg, bread, and a bowl of venison stew.” Sevine, as she called herself, set a plate and bowl down before her. To be frank, the food smelt normal, something that her mother would have cooked. 

“Ah… Sevine? What year is it here?” She asked after a mouthful of stew.

“Why, it is 207CE. What year did you expect?” 

	[i]207CE? Does this mean that I’ve gone back in time? No… Not once in my studies have I learned of a place called Sky-Rim or this Imperial City. Have I crossed into some multi-dimensional world?’[/i] Vera thought, her eyes fixated on the stew.  “Where I am from, it is June 3rd, 1920.”

“As I’ve said before, it’s the work of the Daedra. It sounds like Vaermina is having a hand in this.” Leif said with a disapproving grunt.

	“You’ve mentioned that before, what exactly are the Daedra?”

“While the subject is lengthy, in short, Daedra, specifically, the Daedric Princes are powerful entities, much like a god of sorts. There are over seventeen known Princes, and each one affects our world in a profound way. Each Prince has their own realm the rule over, as such, Vaermina is the Daedric Prince of dreams and nightmares. I wouldn’t be surprised if Vaermina had something to do with your appearance. Though, to be frank, I’ve never heard of anyone coming from another realm entirely.” Leif offered up. To Vera, he looked to be a swarthy pirate, though his mix of leather and steel armor contradicted that notion. With all of this talk of Daedric Princes, and some being called Vaermina, her head began to ache in confusion. She wanted nothing more than to wake up, and find herself in Shay’s arms.

“Tell us, Vera Addley, what do you do in London?” Sevine asked, pointing a three pronged fork at her.

	“Oh well… I am apart of a syndicate, an organization that helps distribute the wealth from the rich to the poor.” She said carefully, did they have gangs in Sky-Rim?

“Are you a bandit by any means then?” 

	“Ah, no, well yes, but not quite so.” Oh boy, how could she explain this one to them.

“It sounds an awful lot like the Thieves Guild.” Grumbled Ilona. They certainly had odd accents, and odd names. It reminded her of [i]Beowulf[/i] and the names in the epic poem.

	“I’m not sure what this [i]Thieves Guild[/i] is, but it sounds close to what we do.” Her face turned crimson, praying inwardly at the idea that she would not be cast out in the blizzard.

“Sometimes, people make bad choices.” Sevine began, “But all are not evil. Why, I have a friend, Rozalia, she is a thief, but a close friend of mine. While I do not enjoy the fact that she has chosen such a path, I cannot help but love her, as Mara, has taught me to do.” 

	“Mara? Is this that a woman? A teacher of yours?”

“Nay, she is the Goddess of Love. An Aedra, opposite of the Daedra.” There is little that Sevine could say that would make any sense to Vera at this point in time. 

	When the meal concluded, Sevine suggested that Vera stay the night, and cleared a space in front of the fireplace. She laid down several animal pelts, and then placed a woollen quilt over top. “You should get some rest.” The woman beside her said. Vera didn’t need to be told twice. She prayed that when she laid her head down to rest, that she would wake up next to Shay again. Sleep came quickly, taking her as soon as she closed her eyes.

[i]Morning[/i]

	Familiar scents filled her nose, and slowly, her eyes opened one by one. There staring back at her, was Shay Alden. “Good morning my love.” He crooned, and leaned forward to kiss her on the lips.

“Oh Shay!” She cried after pulling away from him, “I had the strangest dream.” She threw her arms about his neck, and rested her cheek on the warm flesh of his chest.
[/hider]
[hider= Daixanos vs. Pib Dosa]
By [@POOHEAD189]

[i]Somewhere between the Whiterun tundra and The Pale...[/i] 

Letting out grunting cries, the Elk staggered up the small rise, stubbornly clinging to its survival. The arrow within its flank left an easily track-able blood trail. The beast was understandably panicked, its leg muscles churning against the shaft embedded in its body, causing it great pain. 

Dax lamented hurting such a creature for longer than needed. It was in his nature to finish prey quickly. He pursued, crouched low and making his way to a higher slope a few dozen meters north, hiding behind one of the many boulders that dotted the landscape. He drew another arrow and waited patiently, the Elk about to make it to the top of the short rise. He prayed to the Hist that this next shot would fell the creature, for he held it no ill will. It [i]had[/i] been a perfect shot, but the wind had picked up and caused his arrow to strike the Elk's back leg. 

Now that he had an easy view of the Elk, he knew this next shot was too close for the wind to do much damage. Dax placed one of his legs atop one of the smaller rocks to gain a bit of elevation, pulling his bowstring taut and waiting for the opportune moments He felt the time to fire nearing. The Elk was just within his sights... 

A white blur leaped from the boulder atop the Elk just as it made it to the height of the rise. It was humanoid in shape, with strange, form fitting armor perhaps. It killed the Elk brutally, arm pumping as it stabbed the beast over and over, finally slitting its throat as it fell to the ground with a curious blue blade it held in its hand. Was that an Elvish weapon? Perhaps it was Glass, even. Dax realized he understood very little of what this shelled stranger was, much less who it could be. 

He suspected that its shell was a sort of full body armor, and not this thing's skin. But it was unlike anything Daixanos had ever seen. The Argonian watched as this 'man' began to skin the Elk with his blue knife, using practiced cuts as if he'd done this before. It only took a short few moments before the man noticed Dax looking at him from the slope, bow in hand. 

Pib Dosa stood up, having wiped his virbroblade on this native creature's hide. "This world seems too cold for your like, Trandoshan," he said. His voice echoed both within his helmet, and without. Somehow Dax could easily hear it. though it gave him little clarity as to what this one was speaking of. This newcomer spoke with a surety, it appeared. 

Dax could not see the man's eyes from within his helm, but Pib was admiring the bow and Axe Daixanos carried. "Rudimentary weapons. Admirable," he admitted. He too examined Daixanos. This Trandoshan was certainly shorter than most, though still muscled and perhaps slightly taller than the Mandalorian himself. His tail was elongated, perhaps a enhancement Pib was not familiar with. He could be a Saurin subspecies. "What planet is this?" 

That took Dax off guard. "Planet?... This world is called Nirn." 

"[sub]Must be a in the Outer Rim...[/sub]" Pib muttered to himself, before looking back to Dax. He gestured to the slain Elk, voice confindent. "Did I steal your kill?" 

"Yes," Dax replied.  

"The kill is mine now," Pib declared. His hand strayed to his DC-15A Blaster Rifle. "But it can be yours if you have the strength to take it."

Pib held no illusions. Transdoshans were avid hunters, and when they were cheated out of a kill, they would seek to settle the score. Little did he know that Dax was not quite so bloodthirsty. Unless pushed of course, which was exactly what was occurring. 

Daixanos locked stares (he believed) with the Mandalorian. Even without seeing his eyes, and at this distance, he could tell they now stood upon the edge of a knife. He didn't know what this armored stranger was about to do, but he was sure that it was something Dax needed to be ready for. He looked confident at this range, which meant he had some sort of ranged capability. 

Daixanos was about to speak once more, when Pib Dosa whipped out his Blaster Rifle and open fired. Even as he moved, Daixanos rolled behind the closest boulder on instinct, barely avoiding the lasfire that burned the landscape. 

"Kaoc!" Dax cried, using the Jel word for what the Cyrodiil populace would consider 'shit!' By the Hist, what magic was this? No, no, it was not magic. That was nos stave the man was carrying, nor did Dax get that uneasy feeling whenever he had to deal with a mage. No, somehow, this was something different. 

Quickly, he lifted himself above his cover and aimed his bow in a swift, fluid motion. Only to realize the man was gone! A thrumming noise from above betrayed his position. 

Pib Dosa had used his jump pack to leap high into the air, going up the slope and now over Daixanos' cover. He aimed to fire, but was hit by an arrow, shot more out of a honed reaction by Daixanos than anything. It hit him in the chest, and though it did not break his Katarn armor, it sent him back in the air, his height advantage now lost. He was losing power to his Jump pack as well, for it was only supposed to be employed for small jumps. Pib had to land again back onto the middle of the slope. 

He growled, and charged up the rise with his rifle at the ready. That Trandoshan was a fine shot, he admitted. Killing him would be quite the honor. Legs pumping, almost leaping from rock to root in order to gain speed up the slope, Pib made good time. He was just as surprised as anyone would be to find that Daixanos had disappeared. That is, until he saw movement in his peripheral vision. 

Something had rustled the bushes in the wooded area not twenty meters away. Pib Dosa regarded the forest for a moment, trepidation and a thirst for combat welling up inside of him. He reloaded his DC-15A, and was about to pursue the reptilian alien into the frosted woods of this strange world before he halted. Realization hit him, for his armor was too much of a stark contrast to the trees, even with such heavy snow. He knelt down, and reached into the dirt to smear some of the chilled mud onto his armor. He was no fool, as this Trandoshan would soon find out.   

Moments turned to minutes, Dosa keeping still just as much as he moved, going from tree to tree in tactical maneuvers. A veteran of jungle fighting, he grew up on the heavily forested planet of Dathomir and killed far more terrible things than this Trandoshan, even as formidable as he appeared. Still, he had to give Dax credit, for moments after he thought such things, he seemed to have found a cleverly laid trap. He knelt down before it. 

Thin sinews of rope, hidden under ubiquitously laid brush was just along his path. He followed the string, seeing it loop around a tree to his right, looping once more upwards, to hold up a small log that would have snapped downward to slam into whatever had tripped the rope. 

"Clever," he muttered, and stepped over the rope carefully. 

An arrow sliced out of the forest. Dosa reacting on pure instinct, he spun on his feet, carefully avoiding both the arrow and rope with his intense and disciplined reflexes. Unfortunately, the arrow had severed the rope. The heavy limb now a subject of gravity, flying downwards. Pib Dosa dived, narrowly avoiding the log as it thudded into the earth. 

The Mandalorian's dive turned into a tactical roll to end up on his knees, Blaster Rifle now firing into the arrow's last known source location. Lasfire flashes lit the forest. If Dax had stayed put, he would have been disintegrated by the plasma based solid shots now punching through the brush. 

The Hunter had not, however, and to the left of Pib, Daixanos sprinted out of the forest with another arrow nocked and ready. He fired. Pib Dosa felt it was worth getting hit to strike this enemy back, and decided not to dodge. Perhaps it was based upon design, or perhaps it was the Manda testing him, but the arrow found itself embedded into the barrel of his rifle before Pib could shoot. Immediately, the Mandalorian could tell something was now off about his Rifle's firing capabilities. 

Dax dropped his bow and reached for his Axe, now leaping and sending his weapon in a terrifying Arc. The Mandalorian swung his rifle in turn, for the DC-15A was a sturdy and heavy rifle, weighing in at 9.5 pounds. The Blaster Rifle hit the haft of the Axe, and the two bashed into one another and locked, the two testing each other's strength for a moment. 

"Surely you can do better," Pib Dosa spat through gritted teeth. Dax merely growled in response. 

The Mandalorian kicked out, his booted foot striking the Argonian's knee, causing Dax to grunt. Daixanos staggered, but used it to send his Axe haft down to jam into Pib's own leg, before shoving it forward to thrust into the Mandalorian's stomach, knocking the breath out of him. It was then Pib decided to switch tactics, dropping his Rifle and grabbing the haft of Dax's axe, and then jerking downward and to the left in a throw move, sending Dax flying end over end to hit the earth. 

Pib pressed his knee onto Dax's chest, but the Argonian found purchase for his feet under the Mandalorian's abdomen, and shoved with his considerable leg strength. The Mandalorian flew, hitting the ground in a roll. Both made it to their feet simultaneously. Dax gave a growl that would have sent many Men quivering. Pib Dosa did not, and took out his strange blue long Knife. To Daixanos's surprise, another blue blade suddenly jutted out of Pib's opposite arm's bracers. The two took a moment to size one another up, measuring their stances and probable fight patterns.   

Dax leaped forward, but not within Long Knife range, using his Axe as a thrusting weapon to send Dosa back. The Mandalorian sidestepped deftly, attempting to get within striking distance. Dax's powerful tail had been laying in wait, ripping the Mandalorian's feet out from under him. He hit the ground on his back, having barely any time to roll to the side as the great head of the Axe thudded into the ground. 

The Mandalorian kicked Dax in the leg, even making a successful swipe with his Long Knife. It was a small cut on his calf, but Daixanos felt just how sharp that blade was. He did not know what sort of magicks it held, but he was not entirely sure his iron armor would be a suitable defense to it. Fortunately, Dax was too deep into combat to be anxious over his magick superstitions now. Pib Dosa jerked his legs, allowing him to leap upwards from a prone position without occupying his arms, landing in a crouch. 

Poised and ready, it was his turn to go on the offensive. He cut and stabbed, Daixanos backpedaling, hands now holding his Axe as he would a PoleAxe, bottom on the middle and top near the head, to give greater control. He knew that he needed to think quickly, for the Knives were now a blue blur in his vision, and he moved on pure instinct to survive as he was forced back step by step to hit the base of a tree. 

[hider=Ending One]
Pib stabbed with an underhanded strike, upwards, with his freehand Vibroblade. Daixanos growled, using the haft of his blade to knock that striking arm downward, forcefully, before his left hand let go of his own weapon and caught the arm of the wristblade before it could complete its own stab. [i]Hist guide me![/i] Daixanos' corded muscles were finally tiring, but he used the last bits of his strength to do a one handed downward cut with the head of his Axe, now so very closely pressed to the Mandalorian. 
It was a sign from the Hist, for the Axe head found a weak spot on this stranger's armor between the shoulder and the collarbone, slicing into the black fabric that seemed to keep the white plating together. Blood spurted out of the sudden wound, and Pib Dosa stepped back, trying to staunch the flow of blood with one hand while he held up his wristblade arm defensively. 

Even with such a wound, he was ready to fight and die like a warrior it seemed. Daixanos would honor him, and moved forward, slashing to and fro. The Mandalorian did his best to dodge, and to his credit managed to, the first few times. But with the loss of blood, he was slowing. The Axe fractured his chest piece, sending the Mandalorian on the ground. 

He still got up, and so surprised was Dax that the Mandalorian's lunge had his wristblade bury deep into Dax's flank. The Argonian howled, but ripping out his own skinning Knife, he jammed his own blade into the Mandalorian's weak point, burying it in Pib Dosa's throat and ending his life. 

"A worthy foe," Daixanos said to the lifeless, frozen forest.
[/hider] 
[hider=Ending Two]
Pib stabbed with an underhanded strike, upwards, with his freehand Vibroblade. Daixanos growled, using the haft of his blade to knock that arm downward, forcefully, before he let go of his own weapon with his left hand and caught the arm of the wristblade before it could complete its stab. But he was off balance, and he knew it. Swift as a viper, the Mandalorian used his vibroblade to finally shear through the Axehaft, causing the head to fall to the left and leaving nothing between the unarmed and tiring Argonian and Knife wielding Mandalorian save half a foot of empty air. 

Dax pushed Pib away with his fading strength, only for Pib to slice downward on instinct, severing the Argonian's hand at the wrist. Daixanos cried out in pain and anger. Brutally, just as he had finished the deer, Pib Dosa slammed into the weakened Argonian and stabbed repeatedly, ending this strange Trandoshan's life on this strange planet, stab after stab. Daixanos the Hunter faded, and his soul found rest within his Homeland to be reborn many years later at the base of a Hist tree. 

"Good fight, Hunter," Pib Dosa said, saluting the now fallen enemy. 
[/hider]
[/hider]

[i]Stories from the Past[/i] - Canon ([b]#2[/b]):

[hider=A Trial in the Sands]
By [@Dervish]

[i]Ten years ago
Riddle’Thar’s Rest, West of Orcest, Anequina [/i]

The blazing desert sun was unrelenting as it always was as rain seldom found its way to the deserts and savannahs of Anequina as if the clouds themselves found the heat too unbearable to stay for long. In the shifting sands, numerous ruins and ancient structures were buried over the years, signs of passed civilizations left derelict and forgotten throughout the ages, the large blocks of sandstone and granite extending through the sands like fingers of a buried giant consumed by an unforgiving void. It was, to an visitor from far off lands, as if life itself had deserted these lands, with no water and hardy withered vegetation to give credence of life. Like flesh and blood leaves behind a dry skeleton, the absence of water leaves the desert. 

And yet, in these unimaginably harsh conditions, Khajiit had existed among the sands for thousands of years, some saying predating even the Elves. The people of Elsweyr are renowned for their wit and adaptability, their ability to pick up and move on from one thing to the next with the ease of the wind. It is these eternal wanderers and resourceful cats that can thrive in an unimaginably harsh environment that has mercilessly killed the unprepared since the beginning of time, and in the absence of great cities and castles an ancient culture based on community and the reliance on putting the needs of the many above the individual has long taken route. Tribes cannot survive unless everyone works together as a whole, and those who pull against the needs of the tribe are often cast away like a malignant tumour, damned to wander cold sands in lands of strangers if they wish to survive.

However, despite the Khajiiti predisposition to altruism and charity, there are always forces that work against the ideals of the people at large. For the Men and Mer and other Beasts, Khajiit are seen largely as smugglers and thieves, skooma addicts, and more darkly, assassins. It was the Renrijra’Krin that largely cemented this reputation as their reach extended far beyond the sands of Elsweyr, and if those who had Khajiit reside in their lands cared to ask the marginalized cat-folk for the truth, they would have known that many of the ‘Krin are what have caused the sordid reputation of the Khajiit in far off lands and the backlash against those who simply wish to live their lives in these foreign communities for the crimes of their kin ensures that the ‘Krin are never lacking for new recruits or fences for their cause. The Renrijra’Krin had a saying, ‘one should never stomp a hornets nest because one had been stung once, for one will find the stingers will never cease’. It is for this reason that the ‘Krin never lacked for influence and bodies to fill their cause, despite being contradictory to the Khajiiti way of life. It was a community, like any other, but one that dared ponder what would happen if an individual decided to take some of the fruits of their labour for themselves instead of giving it all back. 

And so, in the ruins of Riddle’Thar’s Rest, named for the cosmic Khajiiti entity that taught its practitioners unparalleled unarmed combat skill, and these ruins made for an important layaway for the Sugar God’s messengers. First spoken of by the Mane Rid-Thar-ri’Datta, it would prove ironic why a very select group of the Renrijra’Krin were competing with one another in martial arts under the watchful eye of their Masters; the victor would be offered the most rare and infamous of tasks for their success. The initiates were not told the specifics, only that they would be asked to do something that no other Khajiit has done and their names would be written in the sands for eternity. It was, of course, an offer too enticing to resist. 

Sixteen initiates, selected on the number of phases in the Lunar Lattice, had competed in a number of duals. The initiates were all of the bipedial breeds for practical reasons; the task they were competing for, by necessity, required use of hands and the ability to wear a uniform. It had been a few hours already, and as an incentive to test their resolve, they could have water any time they liked, provided they forfeit their place in the competition. Candidates were permitted up to three losses, since it was common knowledge that sometimes one simply had an unfavourable match up or made a slight mistake that cost them their round; if given another chance, they would often perform notably better, and if given a final chance, they would either succumb easily or not hold anything back. By not punishing failure, the Masters decided, they could really truly gather the full measure of one’s potential and see what they could do against different opponents. Was an Ohmes an incompetent warrior because they didn’t have claws nor the height and weight to defeat a Cathay-Raht, who were only seconded in size and mass to the Senche-Raht tigers? Of course not. A loss was a loss, and the real world didn’t offer second chances, but the beautiful part of training was it could prepare a Khajiit to face the real world with far more experience and skill than if they would have received otherwise. 

Four initiates remained, and their fatigue was apparent. Even with fifteen minutes between rounds, several hours in the desert heat without water tested the physical and mental capacity of even the hardiest of warriors. Those disqualified sat in a shaded nook, water skins in hand. While some greedily drank back as much as they could hold, some stared with rapt attention at those who remained, both to determine who would be victorious and to perhaps learn from their betters.

Of the four, Daro’Sahana, a female Cathay, Ma’Tasrin, a female Ohmes-Raht, Dar’Jash, a male Cathay, and Dar’Turga, it was Dar’Turga who captured most of the attention. Whereas most were notable fighters and successful members of the Renrijra’Krin, it was Dar’Turga who had frequently proven himself to be a force to be reckoned with. His form was near-perfect, he was disciplined, and unlike most of the others, he did not have anyone that would be considered a friend. He had social acquaintances within the organization, sure, but almost all of his time was spent training and conditioning himself. It was known that he desired to make a name for himself, to become renowned and honoured, to become one of the heroes of legend. Great people accomplished great things, and he had felt that he would have the potential to become someone immortalized in tale if he worked for it. It was that drive that made him such a dangerous opponent; he remembered what his opponents were like from numerous years of training with them, their habits, preferences, strengths, and weaknesses. He himself, knowing that this tournament was upcoming, threw himself into frequent duels against as many opponents as he could find to agree with him, trying different stances and attempting to diminish his own preferences for strikes and movement. It had led to frequent losses, and in one case, and injury that some thought would keep him from competing, but here he was, and the fruits of his efforts paid off. 

After a near-loss victory in his first round against a much larger opponent, the remaining bouts went by smoothly, alternating between immediately counter-attacking after letting the opponent make the first move and taking the fight to them aggressively as soon as the fight began, keeping them off balance enough that by the time they have an opening, they’re too sore to make any use of it. In short, for a young man of what was estimated to be around 17 or 18 years on Nirn, Dar’Turga’s fighting capacity was already far beyond what could have been expected for someone of his age. It was as if Riddle’Thar himself guided his hands and feet, and as Ma’Tasrin hit the sand arena, thrown to her back from a twisted arm-bar that almost certainly dislocated her arm, Dar’Turga stood victorious, panting, tongue white from dehydration. His body was covered in cuts, eye bruised over, two of his fingers broken, and a pronounced limp, he looked like a man who should have fallen down and succumbed an hour ago. He sat where the round had been concluded, placing his upturned wrists on his knees and began meditating, waiting for the next round to begin.

If Dar’Turga had one who could match his skill, it was Daro’Sahana and her ferocity. Far more muscular and scarred than most women, and many men for that matter, Daro’Sahana embodied the sentiment that if people wished to look at Khajiit like feral beasts, than she would act like one. Already sent on a few low-level murders and extortions, she had a reputation of leaving an impact anywhere she went. Conditioning her body to take pain by voluntarily being whipped, beat with staffs, or just antagonizing groups of people into fighting her at once, Daro’Sahana was covered in scars, leaving ghostly white lines and patches where tan fur should have been and her hands and knuckles were so calloused from punching soft stonework until she or it broke, more than one individual claimed that it would almost be preferable to being hit with a mace. She was a woman, one of 20 years, but one that even the most hardened of Orsimer would be hesitant to face. Even in this tournament, one of the initiates forfeit when paired against Daro’Sahana. He knew what she was capable of doing to people.

It wasn’t any surprise who the victor was when Daro’Sahana finished off Dar’Jash with a flurry of hammer blows into his ribs, his exposed skin cracking and bruising under the barrage, and then a cruel open palm strike into his face shattered his nose and caused the Mer-like Khajiit to fall backwards, knocked unconscious from the blow. Daro’Sahana roared in victory, sounding very much like a wildcat, before pointing at the still seated Dar’Turga. “You’ll receive worse, Dar’Turga. Your blood will quench the sand’s thirst.” She threatened, voice low and menacing.  She went off to her own corner to stretch and inspect her own wounds. She wasn’t looking any better off than the Suthay-Raht, who seemed to be tranquil compared to the raging maelstrom that was Daro’Sahana. 

Fifteen minutes passed, and both were lead to opposite ends of the twin crescents that were drawn in the sands. In the heat, the blood had had spilled had dried, and now only copper-scented dark spots remained of the crimson fluids that had been spilled. One of the Masters stood between them to the side, completing a triangle, and simply said, “Begin.”

As Dar’Turga predicted, Daro’Sahara took the fight to him, closing the distance in a charge; the one clear advantage over her was she was predictable. As she was nearly upon him, Dar’Turga, sidestepped into a supported crouch and swept his leg behind the Cathay, knocking her leg out from under her. She hit the ground hard, and he immediately gave space; the temptation to take advantage of a downed opponent was great, but Daro’Sahara was one that excelled at bringing aggressors down to her level. He knew if Daro’Sahara managed do get him to the ground, it would be over; she would be merciless and he would never get to his feet again. Instead, he let her get to her feet and square off again. The fight would truly begin in earnest.

She closed again, making jabs and wide slashes with her claws that Dar’Turga handily deflected or dodged with limber flexibility and easy footwork, not striking back himself. The rage was building up on Daro’Sahara’s expression. “Fight, coward!” She snarled, swiping high and clipping his ear, and then suddenly shifting into a roundhouse kick.

Dar’Turga managed to catch the leg in his arm, bracing against the impact with his torso and a supporting leg extended out opposite of the kick, and he twisted the leg, bringing his elbow down hard into the joint, dropping her as she howled in pain and rage. She hurried to her feet, her leg limping severely, and she stared daggers into the Suthay-Raht. She didn’t say anything, but murder was in her eyes. With claws extended, she advanced on Dar’Turga, who stood at a relaxed ready position. She swiped at him, and made purchase into his ribs. To her surprise, he grabbed her wrist with one hand, anchoring her in place and grabbing her other wrist, drove his skull into her snout repeatedly, bracing his leg behind hers to keep her from falling back. Hit after hit, her skin splitting, bone cracking, and teeth coming loose, her already uncomely appearance was becoming worse. Still, she dug in, attempting to tear flesh more, and suddenly, Dar’Turga released her and came up with an upper cut under her jaw, sending her off her feet and back hard into the sand. Long and bloody claw rakes marred his skin, bleeding profusely. Dazed but not quite out, Daro’Sahara tried to rise to her feet again but a hard kick to the throat kept her down and choking. She barely moved after that.

The Master clapped slowly, approaching Dar’Turga. “Well done, well done indeed.” He said, glancing at the crimson gashes and the mess of a woman on the ground. “She likely would have done far worse to you, but you know that, do you not?”

“This one does.” Dar’Turga confirmed, closing his remaining open eye, exhaling slowly to mediate through the pain. “She is skilled and ferocious, one prone to great acts of recklessness if it means certain defeat of her enemy. The swiftest way to victory was to do the same, use her own tactics against her, and take advantage of the momentary hesitation. She could not escape Dar’Turga’s blows, and this one achieved a victory that could only work once.” He said, clutching his side to try to staunch the bleeding. Healing Masters were in attendance, working tirelessly to mend the wounds of those who endured the tournament. Dar’Turga would receive his treatment soon enough. For now, a water skin would have to suffice. Taking it gratefully with a bow, the khajiit drank slowly, letting his try mouth saturate before letting his aching esophagus receive the same relief.

The Master smiled. “Daro’Sahara will not forgive you for this, you are aware. You will recover for the next week, and are dismissed from all obligations. Think of it as a perk of your victory. You will be vigilant, of course, from those who would like revenge.” He looked down at the prone woman. “Rest well, Dar’Turga. Your life as of this moment will be forever changed.”

The next week had passed and was perhaps the most boring of Dar’Turga’s life. Without training, his days were filled with nothingness. He largely sat in the garden of the Renrijra’Krin’s hideout, or enjoying his meal slower than usual, often being the last to leave the dining hall. He expected attacks or at the very least confrontations, but nothing came. Being unable to work his body, he instead turned to his mind, dedicating his hours to mediation and rest. When the week had passed, he had kneeled in front of his bed chamber door in the morning, waiting expectantly for the Master’s return. 

When the Master did return, two similarly-aged Khajiit to Dar’Turga accompanied him, carrying backpacks and looking ready to travel. The Master offered a similar pack to Dar’Turga. “Get changed and come with me. Leave everything behind; it is no longer yours.”

Minutes later, the Master stood before the three young Renrijra’Krin warriors with two other Masters facing across from the other two Khajiit. 

One of the Masters overseeing the meeting held up a simple iron dagger, old and pitted but still free of rust or tarnishing of any sort. Around its grip around through a loop on the cap was a red ribbon that flowed freely in the slight breeze. Himself a Suthay, the Master held the dagger up for all to see. “This dagger has no name.” He announced walking before the three apprentices, making eye contact with each as he passed. “But it is older than any of us. It has assassinated Emperors, Kings, Generals. It is a symbol of the Renrijra’Krin. This blade has been passed down from generation to generation as a symbol of our reach and power to change this world. This next time one of you sees this blade, it will mean that it is time for you to perform one of the greatest feats of our organization in history; you will have been selected to assassinate the Mane.” He said, taking in the wide eyed looks from the three apprentices; it was quite the revelation to suddenly drop on anyone, let alone three individuals whose responsibilities thus far had been nothing but training to become sleeper agents for unknown purposes. It was unheard of to target the Mane. The Master looked for signs of uncertainty, but was met with determination. Excellent.

“This dagger symbolizes that commitment to change and to ensure not only the Renrijra’Krin’s prosperity, but for all Khajiit! For too long we have suffered under the Thalmor’s thumb, and for that, it is time to cut it off to let us breathe again. This ancient, yet simple blade; it is your badge of office to do what needs to be done for all of our people. The three of you have been chosen based on your merits, your skills, your cunning, your strength. You all may be young, but old men do not walk as the Mane’s guards. What we ask of you, the victors in our respective tournaments that each of us designed and oversaw, is to give up everything you know and love to perform this one sacred task, and here under the watchful gaze of Magrus will your fate be decided.“ He announced, gesturing to the burning sun above, feeling the fire in the hearts of the Khajiit assembled as readily as the burning star above. The Master grinned at the determined stares that he received. It was quite the tale, to be sure, and one based only on half-truths. While it was true that daggers were often used to represent the assassination order for the organization, this was one he happened to buy in an Orcest market early on in the week. Absolutely nothing was special about it, but those who were being asked to do incredible things needed to have something incredible to believe in. For the Master, a little white lie was worth the end result.

Dar’Turga’s own Master spoke up next. “The three of you will no longer be members of this sanctuary, and everyone you have ever known will no longer be members of your lives. You will embrace your new identities as if Alkosh had given them to you himself; you will forget all but your training and your purpose.” He said gravely, looking each of them in the eyes. “When you step foot on the carriage, it all begins anew. Do you understand?” he asked, receiving a series of nods. “Good.” He nodded, smiling. Standing before Dar’Turga, he placed his hands  on the younger Khajiit’s arms. “You are going to do great things, aren’t you, Do’Karth?” he asked.

[I]Do’Karth.[/I] he thought, mulling over the name, trying to fit it to himself. He smiled in turn, replying, “Do’Karth will change the world”. he promised confidently, a determined stare meeting that of the Master.

“This one has no doubts that you will.”
[/hider]
[hider=Sweet Oriela]
By [@MacabreFox]

[i]
11th of Sun’s Height, Solitude 4e 199
[/i]
[hr]

	The familiar beam of Solitude Lighthouse beckoned to the sailors aboard the [i]Courtesan[/i]. Seated in the crow's nest, Leif's heart leapt with joy at the sight of the Blue Palace perched on its cliff. Scaling the ladder, he began the descent below to the main deck. The harrowing height of the climb no longer frightened him. In fact, the worn wooden planks underneath his palms provided him with a feeling of comfort. He knew how many planks he would touch before he reached the main deck, 44 in total.

	The last remaining light of the evening sun illuminated the sky in a swathe of magenta and indigo. As the ship glided past the stone edifice of the lighthouse, Leif leaned against the railing. His gaze drifted to the water below, its colorless appearance still unsettled him. The tale of [i]Yngol and the Sea-Ghosts[/i] came to mind. He recalled the tale in how Ysgramor battled the sea-ghosts to reclaim his kin. Ysgramor commanded the ghosts to return his kin to him, yet a mighty gale cast the sky in darkness. Two fortnights passed without a halt in the fighting. Churning and thrashing waves rose from the sea, while white lightning filled the sky. When the skies cleared and the sea calmed, Ygrasmor discovered the body of his son on the shore. Leif shivered at the thought of the eerie mists that blanketed the sea. Mysterious and apparitions often appeared in the veil of fog. The seasoned sailors aboard the Courtesan warned him of the hazards on sailing the Sea of Ghosts. According to myths and legends,

	A firm hand clasped him on the shoulder, "It's always a good trip when Kyne gives us a challenge, eh?" Leif turned at the sound of the gravelly voice and gazed upon his mate, Halvar. The rugged Nord had befriended Leif during his first days aboard the [i]Courtesan[/i]. His reddish-blond hair bore the tell-tale signs of age as streaks of grey peppered his locks. A vast majority of sailors on board the ship were apart of the original crew, starting with Captain Atgeir here in Solitude when he first set sail from this very same harbor a decade ago. That said, the core crew of the [i]Courtesan[/i] consisted of Bjorn Strong-Fist, Halvar Rock-Jaw, and Orvar Red-Tree. On occasion, Atgeir would take on another hand when they were hauling larger loads. 

	“Aye.” Leif said with a widespread grin, “Have you any plans while we are here?”
	“That depends,” Halvar returned with a wink, “if you can consider drinking a barrel full of ale, and flirting with the sweet lasses in the Skeever as a plan, then yes. What of yourself lad?”
	“I have to admit, I had the same intentions in mind too.” 

[i]The Winking Skeever[/i]

	Once the [i]Courtesan[/i] had docked and the cargo unloaded, Atgeir dismissed the men from their duties for the night. In company, Leif and the other sailors of the [i]Courtesan[/i] set out to enjoy their evening. Halvar, Orvar, and Leif made for The Winking Skeever while Atgeir and Bjorn went their separate ways. Not long after entering the tavern, Leif and his crew mates seated themselves at a table in the center of the room. The smell of baking bread and bubbling stew floated through the air while a young man, an apprentice from the Bard’s College strummed pathetically on a lyre. His thick fingers made it difficult to pluck the chords of his instrument with the learned eloquence of his teachers.

	“Oi, bless my ears! I think we’re hearing the famed Sheogorath sing us a fine ditty.” Halvar howled as his fist pounded the table, frothy ale sloshed from the mug in his hand, spilling across the surface.

	“Ey laddy-buck,” Orvar hooked his thumb over his shoulder at the caterwauling bard behind, “I think you ought to commandeer that from him before he makes our ears bleed.”

	“Oh come now, he’s not that bad! Cut him some slack, he’s still learning. Learning that he’ll scare away the pretty lasses that is.” At the insistence of his friends, Leif downed his mugful of ale, and stood up from his chair. 

	Striding over to the young man, Leif held out his hand expectantly, in which the lyrist stopped mid-stroke in his song. At first he looked confused, uncertain what Leif wanted,when he demanded in a commanding tone. “Allow me.” The lyrist could be no more than a day over six and ten, for he had yet to grow an inch of hair on his chin. Timid, and desperate to avoid conflict, he handed the lyre over to Leif. With a playful grin, Leif guided the lad into a vacant chair. “It would do you well to pay close attention. I’ll show you how to win a woman’s heart.”

	Leif moved to where the lad had stood moments ago, plucking the cat-gut strings to determine their tune. Adjusting the strings accordingly, he tested them again with a swipe of his hand. This time, a melodious tune resonated off the stone walls. Heads turned in his direction, curious to hear who could play music so sweet. Orvar and Halvar hid toothy grins behind their tankards, the Skeever would have a performance that they wouldn’t forget for many years to come. Closing his eyes, Leif cleared his head of any distractions where he inhaled deeply, on his exhaling breath he strummed another chord, this time of a higher note. When his eyes flew open to meet the curious stares of onlookers, Leif allowed himself a small grin before he burst into song.

“[i]O, back in the days when I was a lad,
There was a lass that I knew I had to have.
Her eyes were the color of honey,
So sweet and so pure.
Her skin would make any sheep blush,
For it was white and smooth, like a winter’s morning hush.
Her hair glimmered and glistened under the fair sunlight,
The color o’ fire, that it shone so bright.

Sweet Oriela,
O’ my sweet Oriela.[/i]” As Leif finished the first verse of his song, Leif snatched a bundle of red mountain flowers from a planter. He moved towards a young lass, perhaps no more than twenty in age, and dropped to one knee. He propped the lyre up, and lowered his voice, where he continued on in song.

“[i]O’ my sweet lady,
I never told thee, of how my heart beats.
When I hear the soft sighs pass o’er your lips,
You make me never want to stray from your side, e’er agin.

Sweet Oriela, 
O’ my sweet Oriela.
How I would take up my sword in your name,
I would slay but a hundred men, if it meant I could see your face.

But alas!
So came the day, when I asked for your hand.
‘Twas here that I discovered,
That you had pledged yourself to another man.[/i]” Leif proffered the bundle of red flowers to the lass before him. She gasped aloud at the gesture and her cheeks turned a rosy hue. He smiled and then rose to his feet. The chords of lyre turned to a sombre note as he plucked at them in a tender fashion.

“[i]O’ my sweet Oriela,
I never thought this day would come true.
Yet, there you were, adorned in blue,
A garland of flowers o’er your crown o’ fiery hair.
To him, ye were wed.

Mine heart,’twas broken forevermore.
Forevermore, forevermore. 
I roamed the wilds o’ Skyrim, my home.
Many a bear did I slaughter, and many a broken bone
Did I suffer.[/i]” 

Leif moved past the woman he gave flowers to, and ventured over to another lass, this one slightly older, evident of the laugh lines around her mouth. He strummed a few more chords before kneeling. Clasping her hand, he raised it to his lips and planted a kiss. She could not refrain a smile at his actions. He remained in his kneeling position as he returned to playing the lyre.

“[i]O’ my sweet Oriela,
I thought you to be mine.
So beautiful and divine,
There is naught a man that would honor ye,
With the respect and love ye deserve.

So I carried on,
Through the wilds o’ Skyrim.
And I sharpened my sword,
And honed my words,
To be sharper than any dagger.
In my grief, did I stagger,
Ever onward. Ever onward.
To hear your voice agin,
O’ my sweet Oriela![/i]”

With that, Leif’s ballad came to an end. The patrons of the Skeever erupted into a thunderous roar, they pounded the tables and begged for an encore. Yet, Leif did not heed their pleas, instead he made his way back to the lad. He sat with jaw agape as Leif returned his instrument to him.

	“There you are my lad.” He said.

	“I… thank you, sir. Thank you.” 

	“Oh don’t thank me.” Leif winked at him, “unless of course, you happen to bed a woman tonight. Use the song if you wish. It is a favorite among many men and women alike.” There he departed from the aspiring bard and made his way back to the table where Orvar and Halvar awaited him. 

	“Lad! You should have seen the looks on their faces.” Orvar said through a series of bellowing guffaws, his face and neck were crimson from laughter.

	“Aye, you put that bard in his place, you did.” Halvar added. He waved at one of the serving girls in the tavern. When she approached, he placed an order for another pitcher full of ale. The rest of the evening, Leif and his comrades downed pitcher after pitcher of ale. Several women and men alike paid their thanks for his performance, they complimented him on his singing voice and ability to play the lyre. As such, they ordered him round after round of ale and plates stacked high with food. Neither of his mates denied the gifts, and ate with ravenous appetites, their thirst insatiable.

	The remainder of that evening’s events disappeared from memory. He knew not when he left the Skeever, nor, more importantly, how he ended in up a horse stall outside of Solitude. He started at the sight of a chicken slumbering in his arms, he released the bird and shooed it away. As he sat up, bits of straw clung to his tunic and stuck out from his hair. Running a hand over his beard, he made an attempt to groom himself proper. Then, he pushed himself to his feet, and blinked away the dancing colors that obscured his vision. Staggering out of the horse stall, Leif gritted his teeth at the overwhelming brightness of the early morning sunshine. With unsteady footsteps, Leif began the long walk back to the docks, hopefully the [i]Courtesan[/i] hadn’t sailed out of port yet.
[/hider]

[i]Another Perspective[/i] - Canon ([b]#3[/b]):

[hider=Homecoming]
By [@MacabreFox]

I watched her leave, and I watched her return a changed woman.

Thick gray clouds blanketed the sky over Falkreath bringing an unwelcome chill to the air. Nevertheless, I had finished my tasks for the day and took it upon myself to soften the aches in my muscles with a mugful of ale. All around me were familiar faces of the townsfolk, I knew every person here. Most of them knew my ma and pa, and I grew up with their children. There were weary faces this day, news reached us that the war had ended days before. The celebration of the Stormcloaks winning back Skyrim had had mixed reactions amongst the folk here. Those who had supported the Empire changed their attitudes weeks before the war came to a close, and even now they were tight-lipped and grim-faced. Even now, the atmosphere in [i]Dead Man’s Drink[/i] held a tension unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. 

But I knew.

I knew why these people wore the expressions of mourners at a funeral pyre. They had yet to learn who had perished in the final battle at Solitude. There were countless men and women alike that had gone off to fight in the war. Edith Bright-Wings, Arnbjorg Cracked-Tooth, Helgi Thorn-Raker, Kjeld Stone-Crusher, Thranvir Fire-Nose and Sevine Varg-t’uk were the first to volunteer to aid in the fight against the Empire. Now, we waited in earnest for the day they would stroll through the gates of Falkreath, alive or dead. I raised the warm mug of ale to my lips and let the liquid wet the back of my throat. Out of nowhere, the door to the tavern flew open. Heads turned including my own, thundering cries erupted from everyone surrounding me. I gave a cry of surprise as well. There in the doorway stood our soldiers, alive, in the flesh. Chairs tipped backwards as they scrambled to welcome them home. 

“Edith! Oh my dear girl!” Came the cry from her father as he wrestled through to crowd to reach her. I noticed immediately that not all of Falkreath’s warriors had returned. Amongst the ones present were Edith, Kjeld, Thranvir and Sevine. While other patrons brushed past me, I awaited my turn, that’s all I could do. Everyone embraced those that had returned home, tears were shed, cries of anguish and joy mixed together. My hands were cold, my head spun, I needed to sit down, but I refused. Then, I saw her. My sister. She pushed her way through the throngs of people, several of which clasped her on the shoulder and said things like, “It’s the Huntress!” and “Welcome home, Sevine.” or “Your father would be proud of you.” 

	She had changed. I could see it. Two years away at war, what more could I expect? Her shoulders drooped, her green eyes that were always bright with a fire had dimmed. Even her copper hair had dulled. The skin over her cheeks were pulled tight, and there were new lines on her face, lines that had not been there when she left. She wore her Stormcloak blue armor, an axe at her hip and her long bow strapped under a shield. My eyes burned as a strained smile crossed her lips. 

“Little sister.” I lost it, the sound of her voice after so many years pushed me over the edge. The lump in my throat made it hard to breathe, much less speak. She pulled me to her chest, her arms wrapping tight around me. I couldn’t hold it back anymore, so I buried my face into her, I let myself cry, I didn’t care. No. She was home now. And that’s all I had ever wanted. “Oh Lili.” Her strong arms held me tighter, one hand stroking my back just like she used to when I was a child. She rested her chin atop my head, rocking me back and forth.

When I found the courage, I lifted my chin and found her own eyes red with tears, “I missed you so much.” Her face split into a smile as she chuckled, she placed a hand on my head and ruffled my hair.

“I am home now.” Sevine stooped down and kissed my brow, her lips were cold against my flushed skin.

“I heard so much about you, about your heroic deeds.” I said, perking up at the thought that my sister, Sevine, had earned a Name for herself. At the mention of my words, a dark cloud crossed her features, but passed within seconds. “Is something wrong?” I asked, I knew my sister too well. 

“I… am tired.” She said with a heavy sigh, it reminded me of pa, how he sighed after a long day of tending to the garden. “Shall we go home?”

“You don’t want to stay and celebrate? Valga promised a feast whenever our soldiers returned home. She’s already run off to fetch Solaf and Bolund to help.” I glanced around, watching as Valga darted out of the door to the inn.

“No, little sister. Let us go.” Her face screwed up into an odd expression, one that I couldn’t identify. I had an inkling something had happened that she withheld from me. I relented with a nod, I wasn’t going to argue with her, not now of all times. Together, we strolled out of [i]Dead Man’s Drink[/i] and made our way back home.

	For the most part, I was surprised that Asper had come home too. The dark bay stallion appeared lean in my eyes, and like my sister, his coat had lost his luster. Sevine hoisted herself into the saddle, and extended her arm out to me. I took her hand in mine, noticing that her hands were cold and calloused. With one pull, she had me behind her, and at the cluck of her tongue, we set off down the road at a fast trot. What would have taken close to an hour, we made the trek home in thirty minutes. We turned off the road near Pine Watch and onto a dirt path well-worn from Pa’s wagon. My stomach plummeted at the realization that I had yet to tell her of the tragic news. Days before, our father had passed away. He had a cough for months that would not leave him, and a fever in the last week that would not break. I had just sold a chicken to pay for his medicine when I returned home to find him not breathing. Were it not for the people of Falkreath checking on me, I would have had to bury our father alone.
	We crested the hill where the pine trees cast us in shadows. With my arms wrapped tightly around her, I noticed that my sister’s scent had changed, she smelt… foreign to me. Like the earth and of steel. Even with my arms about her, she felt thinner. To our left, the pine trees thinned out into a clearing where our house stood. No smoke rose from the chimney, and the garden had become a wild jungle of weeds. My face grew hot from shame. I wanted to cry then, but I resisted the urge. I leapt off from Asper first and watched as Sevine dismounted. Her brows were furrowed, as if she sensed something amiss. She glanced once at me, before turning her attention back to the log and stone cabin. I watched her cross the clearing in long, powerful strides, where she pushed opened the door with a thunderous bang. I could see where I stood how her shoulders dropped, she disappeared inside. Her shouts echoed across the clearing, calling for our father. She emerged moments later, her cheeks flushed a deep shade of red. 
	“Lili-” She couldn’t finish her sentence, she must have seen the look on my face. I watched as my sister fell against the doorframe, a hand covering her face, she never wanted me to see her cry. I don’t know why. Within seconds, I crossed the clearing and wrapped my arms around her. She tried to push me away, but I held on tight. I regretted my decision then. I knew I should have told her when I first saw her. Eventually she quit fighting as I weaseled my way against her chest. As I rested my head on her chest, I could hear the struggle in her, how she fought back the tears, the anguish and turmoil rising in her. 

“I’m so sorry.” I whispered, if I could take her into my being to shield her from the pain, I would have done just that.

“How?” She croaked, her voice cracking through the grief. I inhaled, fighting past the lump in my own throat that made talking difficult.

“He had a cough that wouldn’t go. A fever that wouldn’t break. I went to town and sold a chicken, we didn’t have any money, and I bought him medicine. But when I returned…” I couldn’t bring myself to finish my own sentence. A sob escaped from my mouth as continued, “We buried him in the cemetery next to Ma.”

	Later that night, we ate dinner in silence. Sevine used to tease me about my cooking, but tonight she said not a word, just stared languidly at the food on her plate. Even I found it difficult to eat, the food was tasteless and I could barely swallow a bite. Nevertheless, I cleaned up after dinner, and went to bed. As I lay in my bed, I tossed and turned restlessly on my mattress. I wanted this night to end, but I couldn’t unwind. Downstairs, I heard Sevine bustling around the room, I wondered what she was doing, but I didn’t bother to check. It would be best to leave her be,  or so I thought. Each person dealt with grief in their own way. 
	I lost track of time, I think I slept, because I jumped at the sound of Sevine’s feet climbing the ladder to the loft. Night had fallen, casting the loft in absolute darkness. I could feel her presence lingering over the foot of my bed, was she angry with me? I couldn’t tell. I wanted to open my eyes, but I didn’t want her to know that I was awake. The floorboards creaked under her boots and I heard her sink into the bed across from me. I listened for a while, her breathing was shaky and unstable. I wanted to reach out to her, to tell her to come sleep with me like we used to when we were little. But tonight I refrained, she let out a trembling exhale where she sniffled. I knew she had been crying, and the urge to comfort her washed anew over me. I fell asleep from my own weariness, too tired from tending to the animals that day to stay awake any longer.

When I woke next to the grey light of dawn filling the house, I saw Sevine still asleep on her bed. And for the first time in a long time, she slept.
[/hider]
[hider=Memoir of Pakseech Otuwei]
By [@Peik]

[b]Years of my Life, 190-220, by Pakseech Otuwei - Chapter 3, During the War of 203[/b]

[hr]

…It had been some time since the ambush, but despite the hostilities having been brought to a cease thanks to our hurtful bondage, our losses had not ceased. Xil-Aah and Tan-Shai had died to infection by then, and I feared that exhaustion could begin taking a toll on us if the marching did not stop. Already Jee-Teeus was lagging behind despite the extra whipping he’d been getting for it. The officers were discussing on whether to have us carry him, or just put him out of his misery. I myself would have preferred the latter, many of my kin also would, but, something just drove us on, through the pain and humiliation.

One time, the one-armed one berated one of their men, for unnecessary whipping. It is not out of compassion that he did this, I know. He didn’t even look at us like cattle. It’s almost as if he didn’t have anything that came to mind when he did look. Maybe he wanted to isolate us from the mercy a shepherd would show to his herd. Maybe he thought we weren’t worthy of his attention.

It wasn’t until later on that they realized I spoke their language. Only two groups of the three spoke Dunmeris – the third group mostly kept to the common tongue, and seemed to show contempt for the others who kept to their native language. It makes me think even now. Why even fight for your nation if you aren’t going to abide to its principles? Then again, it is not hard to expect such hypocrisy from a people who worship Boethiah.

The fat one constantly talked about his home in Cheydinhal, about how easy life was there, despite the Empire’s situation. I wished to ask him why he had come here to fight us, then, but I was afraid of getting a whipping, or worse. Our leader, Sakeneen, had insulted the Redoran after he had spat on Sakeneen, and was nearly beaten to death for it. Had the redheaded one not interrupted, he would’ve likely not stopped with Sakeneen. The Redoran would have nearly attacked the redhead, too, but he was stopped by the one-armed one, who later had one of the tattooed women put Sakeneen out of his misery.

-

It was only towards the end of the journey that they found out that I spoke common. The fat one, whose name I would learn that day to be Fermal, noticed it when he shouted that one of the guars were running away and I reflexively looked at the guar pack despite not facing them. This would prove to be a big mistake.

My bilinguality became the cause of many complications. Fermal, for some reason, gave me his name, and began trying to socialize with me, make jokes, despite the situation. Had the one-armed one not stopped and berated Fermal in a stoic and rare display of empathy, I would have likely attempted to bash Fermal’s brains out with a rock. 

The one-armed one then approached me and asked me if I really spoke the Common tongue. After giving him confirmation, I was repositioned to the front of the row, as some sort of spokesman. Immediately I felt regret, for I was afraid that my new position could put a distance between me and my kin, and I would be proven right. At nights I would be given the leftovers from their dinner, even though the rest of my kin were rarely fed, and despite either throwing it away or dividing it between all of my group, I could notice aside glances at me, hateful of my new, privileged station.

There was still some positive parts of my situation – my position as middleman made me less likely to get beatings, and I could use their prejudice of us as ‘savages’ to indirectly insult them whenever possible. I would refer to Fermal as ‘Fat Fermal’ whenever I had to refer to him, as if I had learned his name as such, knowing that being called fat made him very angry, and he would get heavily irritated, but unable to do anything about it.

-

…Of course, by then, few of us were in any condition to walk long distances, but our captors were also heavily battered, and more importantly, heavily spiteful of each other. 

Thanks to the Redoran’s insistence on chasing the skirmishers who had killed Fermal, they had gotten most of their animals killed, while passing a bridge that was trapped. I noticed that the trap wasn’t sprung and was operated by one of our kinsmen, who quickly disappeared after a curt nod. To his precision and restraint I and many others owe our lives.

With their pack animals gone, the Redoran quickly had his retinue put to work the idea of using us as pack animals, which made the tattooed sisters, and the redhead, very angry. They argued and exchanged insults on how it was the other one’s fault that they had lost the guars, and eventually the Redoran slapped the redhead to the ground and began kicking him, which caused the argument into escalate into a proper fight, and from there, a mutiny.

We watched as the tattooed sister with grey hair punched the Redoran in the face for his treatment of the redhead. As retribution, the Redoran stabbed her in the gut with his ceremonial dagger. Seeing this, the Ashlanders amongst our captors pulled their arms and attacked the Redoran and all those affiliated with him. The fight was very bloody – I can say that the Dunmer fight most ferociously and ruthlessly against their own kin, which, even when I first saw it, did not come off as very surprising.

After a couple of minutes of fighting, the two parties killed most of each other. The foreign born had chosen to stay out of the combat in a display of cautiousness and cowardice, although it was obvious that they supported the Ashlanders, given how they had fought for their sake. Again, we were forgotten as we, chained to each other and immobilized by shackles, watched the foreigners gather the goods of the dead, and gather up the surviving Ashlanders – the Redoran group, too damaged by the fight, were unwilling to risk an offensive on the unscathed foreigners and the surviving Ashlanders that circled them. The three that remained of them were gathered around the nobleman who had killed the grey-haired woman, who was pinned to the ground, his thigh pierced by a chitin spear. 

That was when the one-armed one approached me. He sighed, and said, ‘’Funny, don’t you think?’’

I did not answer him at first. He continued.

‘’I know you think it’s funny. I think it’s funny. It’s as sad as shit.’’

‘’Why kill your own kin?’’ I asked. We Argonians also fought each other, but I had never seen a group that had shared meals that morning kill each other with such brutality.

‘’Oblivion if I know, pal,’’ he said, dejected. 

I looked at his face. He pulled out a key and approached the lock that kept our group together. We were no longer bound together – our arms were still cuffed, but the collars around our necks that held us together were now gone. I could feel newfound strength coursing through my veins. 

‘’The Redoran have the key for your handcuffs,’’ he said, before he ran back to his group and they hurriedly left, leaving the fifteen of us face to face with the four Redoran.
[/hider]

[i]Ancestry[/i] - Canon ([b]#4[/b]):

[hider=Dar’Makzhi: a Thief in the Night]
By [@Dervish]

[I]
The tale of Do’Karth’s great grandfather
4E105 14 Second Seed, Anvil, 2342 in the evening…
[/I]

The Jewel of the Golden Coast, Anvil was a cosmopolitan trading city that was nestled cozily between the sun-scorched deserts of Hammerfell and the subtropical paradise of Alinor, acting as an intermediary location where in happier times, goods came from all over the West, like bees pollinating a flower, that made Anvil a rich city from the trade tariffs alone and its comfortable climate and bountiful work opportunities made it a popular draw for citizens all across the Septim Empire. That was over 100 years ago.

Now with the Third Aldmeri Dominion having seceded from the Empire, Anvil’s affluence was diminished greatly. While pirates and the Thieves Guild always operated in the city, tolerated by the authorities if only barely so long as they didn’t overstep the law while in city limits; it was impossible to keep a lid on all the illicit underbelly that the city attracted, and lacking the manpower and resources to fully tackle what might as well have been a cultural cornerstone. And so, the city had something of an unofficial motto, [I]It’s not illegal if you don’t get caught[/I]. And considering the guards’ predisposition to turning a blind eye to whatever was happening on the docks and shady but not overtly questionable activities, a sort of equilibrium existed in the city for a number of centuries.  The only difference between this night and 100 years ago was that the city was in such an economic slump that the new motto might as well have been, [I]Any business is good business[/I]. Even the Thieves Guild made the most bare and half-hearted effort at concealment these days to the point they might as well have been wearing uniforms and handing out pamphlets. However, that wasn’t to say that wealth wasn’t still found in the city; it just meant that those who had more coin than the average man had gotten exceedingly talented at locking it away. That was where Dar’Makzhi came in; the Renrijra’Krin had appointed him as one of the organization’s foreign field “providers”, which was a sneaky way of saying that he was a paid thief.

And a damn good one, at that.

Being Ohmes, Dar’Makzhi looked a lot like a shorter Bosmer to all but the most discerning observers, but his eyes were a giveaway; not that he had slit-like pupils like many Khajiit, but because his blue eyes were very similar to what most Men and several Khajiit adorned upon their faces. However, he could still see perfectly fine in the dark, and as such to conceal his true nature when working, he operated mostly in the dead of night. Since he looked so much like an elf, he often adopted the alias “Wyndel” to see him through his day to day routines. The only thing about his appearance that truly stood out was the yellow bar tattoo that bisected his nose and crossed under his eyes in the shape of a downturned crescent. It was the only bit of heritage that the Khajiit carried with him, and truth be told, acting like something he wasn’t for so long and only being in Elsweyr sporadically made him feel rather distinct from his kin; he preferred High Elf cuisine and fashion and he spoke in a well-learned Valenwood accent to the extent that it felt weird to go back to personal-pronouns. Still, although he felt apart from his homeland, he still was loyal to it with all of his heart… after the Renrijra’Krin, of course. That association happened to make him fabulously wealthy. And after this particular haul, he’d be able to purchase quite the manor and maybe, just maybe, consider taking a few years off. However, the thing about thieves was that it was a trade where one had to constantly hone their skills or risk losing everything from a careless blunder, and Dar’Makzhi had a reputation to uphold; he was the best of the best, or so he told himself frequently.

Sitting on the red tile roof across from his target with a dagger in hand, Dar’Makzhi had been meticulously peeling an apple for the past hour, going slowly enough that only the red skin and none of the fruit within came free. It was a relaxing habit of his, one that gave his hands and mind something to keep occupied during the long waits of canvassing a target to determine what the occupants were up to, and if there was anything that could bungle a heist. He’d never had to kill a person on the job, although he’d always been more than prepared to defend himself to the death if need be, but a master thief simply couldn’t call themselves that if they were constantly having confrontations; that was a great way to end a career and get yourself killed. Instead, outside of his dagger, which in truth was used to pry stubborn lids and peel fruits more often than for any insidious purpose, upon his belt were three bolas, each a length of thin rope with an iron ball on each end, which were his primary means of dealing with interlopers. Cheap and easy to make and an effective if humiliating way of slowing, if not outright stopping, a pursuer, they’d pulled Dar’Makzhi out of a few tight situations that kept his conscious clear; even the best thief ran into bad luck. It was all depending on Nocturnal’s whims that particular night. She often rewarded the bold, but she was equally quick to test one’s talent and resolve. She was a finicky patron, that much was for sure.

[I]That’s fine, Rajhin is much more my speed anyways. Ah, there we are.[/I] he thought, setting the apple down on the tile gently and moved into a crouch, his soft-soled boots silently flexing with the muscles in his feet. Coming out of the heavy oak door of the manor Dar’Makzhi was casing was an Imperial man in his late 40s named Varian Ponferus, a former big shot in the East Empire Company who used his accumulated fortune to start his own trading enterprise, one that was much more likely to turn to less than reputable individuals to turn a profit. He wasn’t being targeted for his moral failings, indeed the thought the Khajiit would be aroused to others’ inscrutable dealings was laughable, but rather because he was both wealthy and had a dwelling that was presumably filled with a number of things that could go missing and would be untraceable because dear Varian would be incriminating himself to report some of his ill-gotten goods to the authorities as missing. Once a valuable artifact changed hands between two or three thieves, it might as well have disappeared from Nirn as far as the original owner was concerned. They’d never see it again. 

For a man who had lived his entire life following an extremely regimented schedule, Varian was infuriatingly inconsistent of when he left his home at night. A man with a loveless marriage, Varian evidently had a mistress he snuck off to visit when his wife had retired for the evening. The trouble was finding which days he was out of the house, but the times were consistent, and he was gone nearly three hours per sortie out of the home to bury himself between some dusky Redguard woman’s thighs a few times a week. All men needed their vices, but would it have hurt the man to be somewhat more punctual? It was rather inconsiderate. To his wife, of course, but also those wishing to make off with a fair deal of coin, perhaps enough to purchase an island in Topal Bay. 

[I]Now, now. The key to happiness is low expectations. Maybe a small island.[/I] he thought, waiting until Varian was well down the cobblestone street before clambering down from the roof, using the generous holds provided by the over-extended stonework on the marble white walls that dominated the city architecture. Touching down on the street, the Khajiit moved swiftly and silently in the dark space between the reaches of the street lamps and was soon at the manor’s privacy wall, a three meter high construct that was easily defeated by getting enough of a running start at it to run up high enough to grab at the edge and pull himself up and over. Now safe from prying eyes in the street, Dar’Makzhi crouched and listened for several moments, listening for any signs that something was amiss. A thief had to rely on both senses and instincts to know when to move forward and call it off. Nothing was valuable enough in this world to make a risk worth it if you were caught and unable to make off with it. Hearing, seeing, and smelling nothing was out of place, the thief made his way to the side of the manor and located the cellar doors he’d spotted earlier and using the lock pick set from a custom bracelet on his left wrist soon had the lock defeated, the tumblers succumbing to his nimble prodding and masterful finger work.  From a leather pouch at the small of his back, Dar’Makzhi produced a small oil bottle that he used to lubricate the hinges before opening the cellar door. It was such a small and simple thing to do, but it was one that eliminated a foolish risk. He made his way inside the cellar and within a few short moments, his eyes adjusted to the almost complete lack of light and he continued into the manor proper.

The manor was old, perhaps 80 years old and filled with a number of antiquities that immediately caught the eye. A lion pelt rug dominated the study, and the hearth was adorned with a rather fetching pair of glass scimitars from some Altmeri craftsman, that much Dar’Makzhi was certain. Display cases of priceless gemstones, polished and yet the size of his fist loomed tantalizingly. And yet, Dar’Makzhi’s instincts told him that the things his Imperial quarry could afford to lose were the ones in plain sight; something much more valuable was hidden away somewhere. He’s just have to find it. 

It was in the ground floor’s library where Dar’Makzhi noticed something; one of the book cases had scuff marks on the floor in front of it, only just visible under a patterned rug. Pulling the rug back, he saw an distinct indentation in the wood, as if it had routinely had a considerable weight pulled across it. Tracing his fingers along the inner siding of the case, the Khajiit found a finger hold and pulled. The entire shelf came towards him easily. Pulling it forward enough to slip behind, he noticed that the entire shelf was resting on a pair of rollers. That certainly was one way to do it.

The room gave off a ghostly blue sheen from a pair of Varla stones that seemed to be acting as an everlasting source of illumination, cast in iron torch scones that had been obviously retrofitted for the stones’ proportions. The only other things in the small room were a case with a beautiful, yet peculiar staff resting inside of it, along with an ancient looking journal and another much newer booklet. Carefully unlocking the case with a smaller set of lock picks, Dar’Makzhi unlocked the case and opened it ever slowly. Pulling the newer booklet from its position, sunken in velvet, he opened it up to the single filled out page, it read.

[I]While this likely is a cunning reproduction as the original artifact is rumoured to have been banished or destroyed, it is authentic enough to the original Staff of Chaos that Jagar Tharn wielded when he usurped the Imperial Throne while under the false guise of Emperor Uriel Septim VII that Lady Barenziah had a visible reaction to this staff when it was discovered that she ordered it destroyed. There is documentation that it was crafted by Loreth himself in the First Era, although this is something that can be called into question. If it is authentic, perhaps it was a spare that was not enchanted as the original Staff of Chaos was in case of failure in the enchantment process. If a cunning replica, than it dates back easily to the Second Era, perhaps by a smith who was privy to Loreth’s lost techniques. Regardless, it is uniquely valuable and should be kept in either the Imperial Library or Arcane University for safekeeping and posterity.[/I]

The document was signed by a signature that Dar’Makzhi found rather illegible, but it had a wax stamp belonging to the Curator of the Mythic Archives in the Arcane University, one he readily recognized. Whatever he had here, it was worth a lot of money to someone. As the thief reached out to grab the staff, a stern voice came behind him.

“You made a dear mistake breaking into my home, thief.” Varian Pomferus stood in the entryway of the chamber, his face red and with the distinct impressions of a hand print upon his cheek. Apparently his indiscretions had caught up with him. The chamber must have muffled the sound of his return; Dar’Makzhi normally had excellent hearing. He silently cursed Nocturnal for his terrible luck, turning his side to the Imperial as a concealed hand unfastened a clasp upon his belt. 

“I must have gotten turned around looking for your wife’s chambers, but from that mark on your face, I’d say she isn’t home right now.” The Khajiit remarked with a coy smile. That seemed to work. Varian’s face contorted with rage and with a scream, the Imperial charged at Dar’Makzhi screaming bloody murder, easy to bait with emotions running so high and his failure smeared across his face. With a swift motion as if he were skipping a stone, Dar’Makzhi loosed a bolas at Varian’s ankles, the iron balls and chord wrapping about his ankles and tripping him up, causing the imperial to trip and smash his teeth off of one of the Varla stones, which was knocked loose from the impact, thudding loudly on the floor a moment after the Imperial. While the man was reeling from the pain of probably a few broken teeth and scrambling to find out what was wrapped about his ankles, the Khajiit grabbed the two books and the staff from the case and ran towards the exit, kicking off the wall beside Varian so the man couldn’t grab at his ankles. Treasures in tow and the need for subterfuge gone, Dar’Makzhi sprint out the front door of the manor and a few twists and turns later down side passages and streets was gone from Varian’s grasp. 

Hours later, sitting by the waterfront with his package carefully wrapped in a protective leather sheathe, the Khajiit chanced a look at the lime-green stonework, so intricately carved with perfect symmetry and cuts that were such that the moonlight above made the entire gem glow as if it were enchanted. It was a beautiful piece, to be sure, and in all, not a bad catch. Perhaps it would be enough for a small island, after all.

Assuming he ever found someone to buy it. 
[/hider]
[hider=How the Raven became Stoned]
By [@MacabreFox]

	The winds of a blizzard howled around the ancient structure. House Raven-Stone, one of the only houses in the Gray Quarter occupied by a Nord family. As fate would have it, Leif was left with no living family. His mother, Sanja passed from consumption, and his father, Jorrlak, soon after. He was an only child, leaving him to inherit all property and belongings that were once his parents. The house was silent, save for the winds. He sank into the chair behind a wooden desk his father once sat at, it was strange, to be the only one left alive. A part of him couldn’t shake the veil of regret for being away so long, while the other half… well, he didn’t feel much of anything. Just a numbness that he couldn’t quite escape. 

	After his father’s passing, Leif busied himself with cleaning the house, giving away items he had no use for, while taking inventory of the household contents. Days ago, as he rifled through his father’s chest did he stumble upon a peculiar item. This item? A worn leather journal wrapped in cotton, and buried at the bottom of the chest. When he opened the journal, careful not to damage the pages, Leif stared in awe at the faded ink scrawled across the first page. He closed the journal shut, and placed it on the desk. He intended to open the journal when he found the time, but weeks had passed since he first discovered the journal resting at the bottom of the chest. 

	Each night he eyed the journal before climbing in bed, he wanted to open it up and read the contents. He had his own ideas as to what the journal might be about, perhaps it was something his father wrote? Though the faded ink, tinged brown with age suggested that it came  from an older time.

[i] ‘I’ll never know unless I open that blasted thing.’[/i] He chastised himself as one hand removed the cotton wrapping. He peeled back the cover, his eyes sweeping over the ink.

[i][b][3E 433[/b]

25th of Midyear ~
The day of reckoning has come. 

	Word has reached us here in Windhelm that the skies in Cyrodiil are awash with crimson clouds, daedra have attacked the city of Kvatch. I fear that this is the end of days. There is but one path I must take. I must bury the stone. 

1st of Sun’s Height ~
	I have left home. Brunhilda cried when I kissed her goodbye, and even the little ones clung to me. It pains my heart to leave them behind, but Brunhilda is a strong woman. That is why I married her. She will look after the children in my stead, whether or not I come back alive. 

I head south from Windhelm. I carry nothing with me save for this accursed stone.

5th of Sun’s Height ~
	I made it to Whiterun. I encountered several people on the road who spoke of the disaster in Cyrodiil. They speak of evil creatures that lurk in the night. Daedra. Awful beings from Oblivion. They say that the sky in some places, as in Kvatch has a tear in the sky, this seems to be the source where the Daedra come. Kyne keep us safe.

Tonight I checked my belongings. Even that damned stone. For generations, my family has kept this artifact out of the hands of those who would do the world ill. No one knows why I left. Not even Brunhilda. Oh how I miss her horker meat pies. I have eaten nothing but dried meat and any apples that I could forage. I gave up this life of the road long ago. It has been over eleven years since I traipsied across Skyrim in search of adventure. Til I took an arrow to the knee, that is.

I have the stone on my body at all times. I hate to look at it, not because of fear, but of what it represents. When my father’s father was just a boy, his father had trouble with a group of cultists that worshipped Nocturnal, the mistress of the Night. The keeper of the Shadows. At the time, my grandfather, Elof, lived close to Riften with his folks. From what I recall, these cultists kidnapped children, and oftentimes small children in which they offered as a sacrifice to the lady of the Night. The hour grows late, I must sleep for my eyes grow heavy.

7th of Sun’s Height ~ 
	I reached Riverwood yestereve. When I woke this morning, the sky was a sad mixture of dark grey clouds. There is a heavy chill in the air as rain pours from the heavens. I cannot journey in this weather. I shall wait for the storm to clear.

Elof’s father, his name escapes me at this hour, gathered with his friends. He spoke unto them, pleading for them to join his cause, to help rid their small settlement of the cultists. These men, who had suffered just as much pain as he, agreed without hesitation. Elof told me the tale when I was a wee lad of just five years, so the details are a bit hazy. 

They didn’t attack right away, after all, they had no clue where the cultists gathered. So they waited. The men kept close watch over the children in the village, while setting traps for no-good-doers. Traps were set with chickens, calves, foals, and lambs. Most evaded the trap, and made off with the young creatures. That is until a heavy rain swept through the area. One of them men rushed to Elof’s house, they had found impressions of a pair of boots all around his house in the fresh mud. They were eager to discover their location and set off at once. Elof told me that his father and the men were gone for days on end. His mother began to fear the worst and had begun to make her peace with Kyne. That was until his father came barreling through the door of their house. 

He was covered head-to-toe in mud and gore. In his arms he cradled a curious object, the one I carry with me now. Elof’s father relayed the tale of what happened in his disappearance.

His father and the men tracked the prints back to a cave. They staked out the area and waited in the shadows for one of the cultists to emerge. It wasn’t until late in the evening that he saw, not a man, but a shadow. It seemed to know that they were watching, for it did not leave the entrance. Instead, it retreated into the depths. He said that the men with his father did not hold back on their anger, and charged forth into the darkness of the cave. They were but simple farmers, what more could he expect?

In the darkness, they felt their way along until they came to a chamber illuminated by torchlight. There they found a group of the daedra worshippers waiting for them in front of a curious door.

But this story will wait, the hour is late.

9th of Sun’s Height ~ 
	The rain has stopped.

14th of Sun’s Height ~ 
	I made it to Solitude. I am glad to have a bed to under my aching bones. The best years are gone from me. Brunhilda says that I am to be 54 this year. I feel much older than that. My joints creak and pop each time I stand, my back cannot handle the countless hours spent in the saddle. Walking is worse though it helps relieve the stiffness in my back. 

Now then, I was about to reach the climax of the story. 

Elof’s father and the men were met head on with a throng of swirling black mist. At first, they were scared, but the anger of losing their loved ones and livestock quickly overcame them, and so they charged headlong into the fray. It was soon discovered that the black mists were men, the work of some evil magic. With the knowledge that the mists were human, his father and his friends cut each one of them down. When none were left standing, the men searched the bodies in hopes of discovering an answer to who they were. It was then that they uncovered a stone, the one I carry now. 

At first they were puzzled at what it was, until his father suggested it might be a key to the door. This door, stood floor to ceiling and was made of black stone, perhaps ebony. There were interlocking stone rings, and in the center, a hole in the shape of the stone. His father took it upon himself to open the door, and placed the stone inside. A heavy grating noise filled the chamber as the rings rotated into place. Then, the door dropped into the floor and revealed what lay beyond.

My food has arrived, the barmaid is most kind. She reminds me of my daughter, Svanna. 

15th of Sun’s Height ~
	Tomorrow I shall set out for the northern most tip of Haafingar. But today I rest. My legs are too sore for me to walk.

I shall write while I can.

Beyond the door lay a central chamber where the statue of Nocturne rose. At her feet were offerings, a mound of bones, while a handmade cloak of feathers adorned her shoulders. In the center of this chamber was a circle with a language he did not know. They searched the chambers and found no remnants of their children, so they took the bones at the altar and carried them home. There were tiny skulls, most likely of the children that were taken.

That is how Elof’s father came to hold the stone. None wanted to handle this god-forsaken thing, and now I understand why. My grandfather grew to keep the stone safe, and when his father passed, he took the name Raven-Stone. When my father never returned from his voyage at sea, I was charged with the task of keeping the stone safe. I often feel that this stone has greater power than just a key, sometimes when I peer into the eyes, I feel as if I am whisked away to an entirely different world.  A shadowy veil covers my field of vision, and I hear mysterious whispering. Sometimes I cannot pull myself away, and when I do, I can still hear those whispers in my head. They speak in a language I cannot understand.

The stone is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. It is the shape of a raven, or a crow. The color is the deepest shade of black, like a shadow. It is as big as my hand, so I must carry it with two hands. It weighs as much as a barrel of potatoes, which is quite heavy for something so small. 

21st of Sun’s Height ~
	It is finished. I destroyed the stone, in a sense. I threw it into a lake in a cave no one will ever find. 

I head home to Brunhilda now.

May the Gods Keep Us.
[/i]

	Leif closed the journal and sat back, his eyes locked on the faded leather. Is this… could it be… this is how he became the Raven-Stone? There were more pages to read, but this… this was all he could handle for today.
[/hider]
[hider=The Teeth of a Wolf]
By [@MacabreFox]

	“Pa, why is our name different than other people?” The tiny voice of Lili broke the silence over their morning breakfast. The sleeves of his tunic were rolled up to his elbows, revealing a swath of dark red hair over his forearms. Seated at his right hand sat Liliana, his youngest daughter, while Sevine sat adjacent to him on the left side. 

	“Why is it you ask, my dear?” He reclined back into the chair while his hands tore a loaf of bread in half.

	“I just noticed. We don’t have a last name like the others in the village. Why is it so funny? What does it mean? [i]Varg-t’uk[/i].” She uttered their surname as her face pulled into a twist, as if she drank sour milk. At her expression, both Sevine and Agnar couldn’t help but laugh.

	“It is a very old name. There are not many people in our country with a name like ours, that is true. But it is a proud name. When Ysgrammor settled our beautiful land, our ancestors came with him. My mind has forgotten much of the story, but I will tell you what I know.” A tender twinkle appeared in his eyes as he crossed an ankle over his knee.

	“When our forefathers landed in Skyrim, we came as a clan. Then, we were a bountiful and prosperous family. There were five brothers, though I remember the name of one, that is our grandfather that fathered my kin. His name was Torrik the Crooked, and he was a man of impressive height and girth. Tale tells that he could down two barrels of ale without succumbing to drunkenness…”

	“Our ancestors sailed across the Sea of Ghosts, and landed here in Skyrim. As tale has been told, the Varg-t’uk clan were fierce people, most of my kin is gone now, save for us, so I can only tell you what my grandfather told me. We were not yet named Varg-t’uk until Torrik the Crooked. In his day, he fought many a warrior, and drew many a circle. As such, he accumulated many scars, but his name comes from not his behaviour, but from his crooked nose. In one particular fight, his opponent, whose name is now long forgotten, smashed his nose with the pommel of his sword. The bone shattered into many pieces, and the healers of the day did their best to restore the bones to their original place. Alas, they could not, and so, Torrik’s face was left with a massive, crooked nose. The damage was so great, that his crooked nose gave his entire face a crooked disposition. But that is not why we are called Varg-t’uk.

	You see, Torrik lived to the lengthy age of seven and fifty. He died a well-respected man, though where he is buried, I can say not. When he was but nine and forty, Torrik left his wife, Helga, to hunt before the clutches of winter swept across the land. It was here that he earned his name. For whatever reason, he had a poor diet, or so my grandfather told me, and as such, he lost many of his teeth. Only his molars remained. You can imagine the wretched sight he must have been when he smiled.

	Now, Torrik was an exceptional hunter. He often carried a sword for fighting, and a bow for hunting. On this particular expedition into the wilderness, Torrik chose to leave behind his sword. An action that would nearly cost him his life. He hunted for days on end, most of the elk had migrated to their breeding grounds, making tracking especially difficult. That year’s harvest yielded little, and if he did not bring back meat, Helga and him would face starvation.” Agnar said.

	“Pa, why did not he ask his neighbors for help, if he were to go hungry?” Liliana asked, she rose from her chair, and climbed into her father’s lap.

	“That is a good question, my little flower. You see, in the early days of Skyrim, people were few, and Torrik was a prideful man. From the words of my grandfather, Torrik enjoyed his solitude, and so he chose to live far away from his kinsmen. He would not have accepted charity from his fellow neighbors, such is why he went hunting. 

	Now then, he spent nearly a week following the tracks of the elk, until he came upon an elk with a broken leg. The elk was too weak to continue on with the herd, and so he slaughtered the creature. When he made camp for the night, he gutted and skinned the elk. He quartered the animal so that he could carry it back on his steed. As such, he left it to dry. Torrik failed to anticipate that there would be wolves in the area, for most of the wolves had followed the herd.
 
	As he lay under the furs in his tent, Torrik was roused from his sleep by the sound of his horse braying. He rushed from his tent to find a wolf lunging at his steed. With a great and mighty bellow, he grabbed a burning log and swung it at the wolf. He struck the wolf, saving his horse from an untimely death, when the wolf turned on him. 

	Man and beast came together, fangs were bared and fists were swung. Each blow he landed upon the wolf, the wolf sank his fangs into his flesh. Blood soaked the ground, and Torrik began to grow weak. He could barely stand upon his own two feet, death seemed inevitable now. As he lingered on his knees, the wolf circled around him, waiting for the right time to attack. 

	When the wolf lunged at him, Torrik knew he had to give every last breath to fight off this beast before he left Helga without a husband. The wolf leaped, fangs bared in a fearsome snarl as it aimed for his throat. Kyne blessed Torrik that day. His hands flew to the throat of the wolf, where his massive hands closed around its windpipe. There, the wolf’s snapping jaw inches from his face, grew still as he strangled the very life out of the wolf. In minutes, the creature that had tried to kill him, lay limp at his feet. Torrik decided that he would not let the wolf go to waste, and in the morning, he carried home the elk he felled, and the wolf. 
When he returned home to Helga, they had enough meat to last them through the winter, and new pelts to sell. However, when he sat down to skin the wolf, he decided that he would wear the wolf’s teeth.”

	“As a necklace?” Lili asked, her fair brows furrowed at her father’s words.

	“Nay, he wore the wolf’s teeth as his own teeth. That is how we became Varg-t’uk. It means wolf tooth in Ancient Nord. When Torrik smiled, his teeth were the fangs of the very wolf that tried to kill him.” Agnar said with a chuckle, he ruffled her hair as he lifted Lili from his lap. “Now, help your sister with her chores, and if you finish early, I will take you to the village to-day.”
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